Silent Observer
by S. Faith
Summary: An invitation to renew old relationships and strengthen new ones is something a brother can't pass up. Movie-based, and a continuation of sorts of the previous story "The Prodigal Son".
1. Part 1 of 4

**Silent Observer**  
Part 1 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 21,016 (this part: 6,525)

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: An invitation to renew old relationships and strengthen new ones is something a brother can't pass up.

Disclaimer: Well-established characters: not mine. The others: well, you know the drill.

Notes: The further adventures of Peter Darcy. Takes place after "Prodigal Son". All mistakes, typos, etc. etc. are my fault and mine alone.

* * *

"So you're going to need a place to stay."

It was a couple of days after Boxing Day, and Peter Darcy, his brother, and his brother's wife were sitting in front of the massive fireplace with spiced wine in their cups.

"I have a place to stay."

"Don't be silly, Peter; stay with us," she said insistently. "You said you were waiting to be settled in somewhere in London. You can't be anywhere permanent yet."

He looked down into his mug. He'd known this woman less than a week, and already she was treating him with the unconditional love of family. "It's a little hotel at the edge of town."

She made a dismissive sound, cute and raspberry-like. "Bah! Cold and impersonal there." She smiled brightly. "Stay with us! Please? It'll be fun."

He had to wonder about how much 'fun' it would really turn out to be, but he hated the thought of going back to that hotel. He turned his eyes to his brother. "Is this what you want, Mark?"

"Our being married," Mark said stiffly, "does not mean I expect her to fall in line with my wishes. In this case… we're of like minds." Only then did Mark grin.

"Bastard," Peter said with a grin in return. "Thought you were going to say no." Peter had to keep reminding himself how much Mark had changed.

"Like I would," replied Mark.

"We'll probably head home first thing in the morning," said Bridget.

"Let's be realistic, Bridget," Mark replied. "Afternoon."

She pursed her lips but leaned over to kiss her husband, then snuggled into the crook of his arm. "So we can caravan together. We're having people over for New Year's, you know."

Peter's mind flashed to the soirees of their youth, ones that he had snuck out of his bedroom to spy on: evening gowns, black ties and tuxedos, incessant chatter like a droning flock of gulls and chamber music to fall asleep to (he had, more than once, been roused and marched back to his room from his position at the top of the stairs). "That'll be… nice," he said politely.

"I think so. It's the first real party we're throwing since the wedding. Oh! I can't wait to show you all of the pictures," she said, clapping her hands. "The wedding and Paris and… oh, but I wish you had been there."

"I would have come if I had gotten the invite in time," Peter said, meeting Mark's eyes. "I promise you that." Mark nodded, acknowledging, believing.

Bridget smiled proudly. "Hurrah! Houseguest!"

Mark then yawned, which prompted them to all rise as if by some unspoken agreement; the moment they did, she jumped forward to kiss Peter on the cheek.

Mark laughed, undoubtedly at seeing the look of surprise on his own face. "Sorry, Peter. She gets a bit excitable at times."

"I'm so looking forward to getting to know you!" she said. "And to get all the dirt on young Mark."

"Pay no mind to her," said Mark teasingly. "She's a bit squiffy."

"Am not," she said indignantly, but wobbling on her feet a little.

"Yes you are," he said, "and I'm taking no chances, you falling down the stairs and breaking your neck." With a quick, fluid moment, Mark bent, took her around the back of her knees and then stood, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Hey!" said Bridget in protest.

He turned to his brother with a grin, but said in all seriousness, "Peter, if you'll excuse us, good night, and we'll see you in the morning."

"Hey!" she shouted again, futilely banging her fist in the middle of his back.

He then turned on his heel and headed for the hallway, then turned for the staircase. Still hearing her residual futile protests, Peter shook his head, disbelieving the transformation, even still.

………

As predicted, Mark and Bridget appeared in time for lunch in the early afternoon the next day, much like every day so far during their stay. It was a very grey day, and the snow was dumping down on them in piles. "Sorry we're down so late," said Mark. "We had a lot to pack."

"Mmm," said Nick, raising an eyebrow as he worked on his crossword puzzle.

"Want something to eat?" asked Elaine. "Nick's chicken soup."

"Oh yes, thank you." She took a seat as Elaine reached for a bowl and filled it from a tureen.

"Mark?"

"Of course."

They ate their lunch and engaged in discussion on the best route given the weather conditions—with Malcolm proclaiming the absolute best route in any weather—before everyone rose from the table and goodbyes were said.

"Have a safe drive," said Elaine. Peter watched her first take Mark then Bridget into a hug, each equally tight. Peter then watched Mark and Bridget alternate between Malcolm and Nick, firm handshakes and caring hugs.

Peter himself have his mother a tight, close hug—"I'm so glad you're going to stay with Mark and Bridget," she said; "You will adore that girl"—and his father extended his hand, which he accepted, only to find himself being pulled into another embrace.

"It's good to have you back, son; good to have gotten to know you all over again," said Malcolm, sounding quite emotional for Malcolm. "Very good indeed."

"Thanks, Dad," Peter replied, feeling a little emotional himself.

"Very good year," said Malcolm, smiling as he met Peter's eyes. "Regained a son, and gained a daughter."

Before leaving the kitchen though, his uncle pulled Peter aside as Mark and Bridget left the kitchen. "A word, Peter." Nick looked and sounded as serious as he ever had.

"Yes?"

"Make sure," began Nick, "to insist upon the guest room at the far end of the hall and away from the master suite."

Peter furrowed his brow.

Nick added, "You want to be able to rest a bit, don't you?"

It took a moment for Nick's meaning to filter through, and when it did, he had to suppress a laugh. It amused Peter greatly to think of the staid brother he once knew engaged in activities noisy enough to keep his uncle awake. "Duly noted."

………

Peter was, yet was not, surprised to see their home in London: large, tall and imposing and in one of the finest London neighbourhoods, but on the inside, the décor was bright, beautiful and lively, which bespoke that the house was likely Mark's choice, brought to vivid life by his bride.

Mark excused himself to check the answerphone down on the lower floor; as Peter looked around in the foyer, Bridget happily offered to show him upstairs. "I used to think of it as a wedding cake," she offered in confidence. "Only inside was not at all sweet, just plain cream and brushed steel."

"Not a very appetizing cake at all," he said.

She chuckled. "I was very reluctant to get some of the things I really wanted for the house," she said, leading him up the stairs. "Mark kept telling me to stop looking exclusively at price tags and going for cheap, and just get what I wanted to get."

"I think you did a lovely job," said Peter, entering his room for the duration, and loving the colour accents in deep ruby and hunter green.

"Thanks," she said with a smile. "The funny thing was," she continued, "once I stopped looking at the cost, I found exactly what I wanted… and most of it didn't actually turn out to be the highest priced stuff."

Immediately he was impressed that she didn't go strictly for pricey when she could have. Definitely a different sort of woman that those usually found in Mark's social sphere. "Well, having never seen the original state," he said, "and knowing Mark's taste, I'm sure this is an enormous improvement."

"Thanks," she said with a grin. "So why don't I show you around? You can't make yourself at home if you don't know where to go."

They both heard footsteps in the hall, saw Mark hauling Peter's bags upstairs; at least Peter was travelling light these days. He let them drop to the floor. "Thanks for leaving this all for me."

"It's your job," said Bridget, "to do all the heavy lifting."

"Sorry, Mark," he replied. "I was so spellbound by your lovely house and your gracious wife that I forgot all about them."

"That," Mark responded, pointing a finger at Peter, then smiling, "was the only acceptable answer possible."

Peter grinned. His brother having a sense of humour so readily available was still something he was getting used to.

He not only had Bridget's attention as tour guide, but Mark joined them as well, showing him the bathroom, pointing out their bedroom door, which Peter amusedly realised was at the opposite end of the corridor from his own room, after all; Nick must have complained directly to them. They then travelled down to the main floor (home to the library, the front sitting room, the dining room and Mark's home office), and after that, one flight further down, to the kitchen and the more casual sitting room.

"This room's the best place to relax in," said Bridget. "The view of the backyard, the comfy sofa, the telly…"

"And Star Trek?" said Peter, coming up near to the shelves upon which their DVDs resided. "Is this yours?"

"It belongs to both of us, though I never saw an episode before Hugh gave us the set."

"You still see Hugh?" Peter grinned. "I always did like him."

"We'd been in sporadic touch," said Mark. "He's a doctor too, you know."

"I didn't realise that." For some reason he had always thought Hugh had focused on the law as Mark had.

"It was only after Bridget was ill that we really reconnected as friends."

"Ill? Ill with what?"

Instead of answering, Bridget said, "Hugh adopted our baby, too."

Peter looked up suddenly in alarm, his mouth dropping open of its own accord. "He… he _what_?"

"Well, it got to be that I couldn't be in the same room as him… and Mark never really warmed to him anyway…"

"Sure I did—" At Peter's undoubted paling expression, Mark laughed out loud. "She's talking about Wickham… the kitten."

Peter blew a great gust of breath out between his lips. "Oh, lord." He started to laugh too, despite himself. "Not that I don't like Hugh, obviously, but I was about to wonder if you'd lost your minds…"

"No, no. Not about that, anyway," said Mark, heading into the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink after that gruelling drive?"

"Sure."

"Beer or wine?"

"Red, if you have it. Thanks."

He continued thumbing through the DVDs and chuckled upon finding a set of discs that every female of a certain age seemed to own. "The _Pride & Prejudice_ is undoubtedly Bridget's, though."

She grinned, blushing a little. "Of course. No self-respecting woman would be caught dead without that set."

"Be sure to put it back exactly where you found it," called Mark from the kitchen, "or she'll claw your jugular."

"I will not," Bridget said in a light tone, from close to Peter. "I'm always up for a viewing, though, if you want."

"I'll think about it," said Peter. "It's weird to hear one's own name bandied about in a fictional context, especially as some grand romantic character."

Bridget chuckled. "That reminds me of something I thought when I met your brother."

Peter saw Mark's head whip up with interest.

"Do tell."

"Well, I thought it was kind of silly to be called Mr Darcy and be standing by himself at the party we were attending, all aloof and snooty." Mark's eyebrows raised. "How it was rather like being called Heathcliff and spending the whole night on your own in the garden shouting 'Cathy!' and knocking your head against a tree."

Peter couldn't help the laugh that erupted from his mouth; poor Mark looked both amused and mortified at the same time. Their uncle and mother had been dead right. He liked her very much already and looked forward to getting to know her better, to becoming friends.

"Bridget!" Mark said sharply, though he was grinning. "You never mentioned that little gem to me."

"I never got the chance to," smirked Bridget. "You always seem to have something very important to do in another room whenever the subject of _Pride & Prejudice_ comes up."

Peter laughed again as Mark came around the kitchen counter bearing two wine glasses. He handed one to Peter with a look that indicated to Peter that Mark was considering his reply. Mark gave one glass to Bridget before slipping an arm around her waist, and quickly winked to Peter. "It is kind of funny," Mark murmured to Bridget before kissing her cheek. "Have some wine," he said in a louder tone. "Maybe you'll let something else slip."

"Not in front of your brother," she said, then took a sip of her wine, flicking her eyebrow up.

They all took seats in the sitting room, Bridget resting comfortably in the crook of Mark's arm yet again. Peter had found in the very short time he'd known her, had seen the two of them together, that they really acted like they'd been together all their lives, fit together like pieces of a puzzle. They were so comfortable with each other; in Peter's experience, Mark was more comfortable with even himself than he had ever been.

"This is nice," said Peter; he sighed then took another sip of wine. It was an incredibly good vintage.

"I suppose life was not easy in Sudan," said Bridget, looking concerned.

"No, it wasn't," Peter said, "but I meant this. Your home. How wonderfully relaxing it is to be here."

She grinned. "Oh. Well, I'm glad you think so."

Peter turned his eyes to Mark. "I do," he said with a smile, then added teasingly, "In fact, I may never want to leave."

"Sorry, brother," said Mark. "Three's a crowd."

"I'll remember to tell your hypothetical future offspring you said so."

Mark and Bridget both chuckled.

They sat and finished their wine in peaceable silence then Bridget rested her head back on Mark's shoulder.

"Why don't you let me buy you both dinner to thank you for the lodgings for the immediate future?" Peter asked.

"That isn't necessary," Mark said.

"Yes it is," Peter said insistently, "since I know you're not going to accept any sort of money for your generosity."

"You're absolutely right."

"You see?" said Peter. "Dinner is my treat."

"Only if we can go to my favourite place," said Bridget.

He caught Mark grinning.

"Okay," said Peter tentatively, suddenly wondering if he'd made a big mistake. "Do you mind me taking a quick shower before we go?"

"Of course not," said Mark.

"I wouldn't mind freshening up myself," said Bridget. "Always feel a bit icky and stiff after a long car ride."

"Well then," said Mark. "Let's reconvene in the foyer at six and head out."

………

It had been a while since Peter had had an opportunity to dress up a bit. He wasn't sure if any of his jackets would even fit anymore; he'd gotten leaner and more muscular during his time in Africa, so he'd found he needed to replace a good deal of his trousers. He slipped into his favourite dinner jacket and was pleased to see that it still fit just fine.

He still had a hard time taking himself seriously in a dress shirt and suit jacket.

After one last inspection in the mirror, smoothing down stray hair and brushing lint off the jacket (it perplexed him how a jacket wrapped in plastic in storage could acquire lint), he headed down for the foyer. A check of the watch showed him he was about right on time. His brother and Bridget, though, were not yet downstairs.

After five minutes of waiting, he decided to sit down in the front room.

After ten minutes, he decided to rest his head back on the sofa.

"Peter. I'm sorry we're late."

He knew instantly that he had dozed off; he hoped it hadn't been for too long. Upon looking at the two of them, though, he became utterly confused: Bridget was wearing jeans and a long sleeved tee-shirt; Mark, casual trousers and a dark blue cotton jumper. "Is dinner out cancelled?"

"No," replied Mark. "Why would you ask?"

Bridget laughed. "I think he was thinking something a little more upscale than the Globe."

"The what?"

"Bridget's favourite pub," answered Mark, who, in his apparent amusement, seemed to agree with his wife's assessment. "I'm sorry. I should have said something."

"No, that's okay," said Peter. "That's what I get for assuming. If you give me a few minutes I'd rather not be too overdressed."

"No worries."

Peter dashed up the stairs, quickly changed back into his favourite denims and jumper, and headed back downstairs in a matter of minutes.

It was apparently long enough, though, for Mark and Bridget to be drawn together in a loving embrace, he looking down at her with obvious adoration, brushing hair back from her face, beaming in a smile in return.

"All set," said Peter, loathe to interrupt.

"Fantastic," said Mark, not looking away from his wife until she stepped away to get her coat, handing him his own as well. "Let's go."

"Your car or mine?" offered Peter.

"Neither. It's not that far a walk."

Peter was sure his eyebrows jumped clear up to his hairline, but he smiled to show his approval. "Very well, then."

Mark had been right. The walk was not long at all, and the evening pleasant for late December. They found seats and were served ale within moments of arriving.

"I used to live in this building," said Bridget. "One of the top flats."

"That makes sense then. That this is your favourite pub."

"Well, yes and no." Bridget grinned. "I never ate down here when I lived upstairs. I only got nostalgic for the place when I moved in with Mark."

Peter chuckled. "What do you recommend?"

"Hm, that's tough. I love their fish and chips, but there's nothing here I've tried that I haven't liked."

Peter decided to be adventurous and try the stew, which proved to be excellent.

Partway through the meal, Mark's mobile started to ring. He reached into his pocket, then excused himself to answer it.

"Worth the gamble, the stew?" said Bridget.

"A bit spicier than I was expecting," said Peter, soaking a heel of bread into the bowl, "but overall quite excellent."

"You managed to pick one of the few dishes I've never tried," she said with a grin, then reached out one of her chips towards his bowl. "May I?"

"Absolutely," said Peter, then watched her swipe the chip into his stew.

She popped the end into her mouth and bit it off, looking thoughtful as she chewed and swallowed. This was followed up by a generous smile. "Oh, that's heavenly," she said. "I must order this the next time we're here."

"How often do you come here?"

"About once a week, truth be told," said Bridget. "Tend to come for our date night when we can't think of anything else to do."

Peter smiled, fighting a laugh, trying to imagine Mark not having planned each date out to the second.

Mark returned just then looking a little crestfallen.

"What's wrong? Who was that?"

"Giles," he said sombrely. "Turns out I'm needed in the office tomorrow."

Bridget pouted. "But it's Christmas holiday. They promised not to bother you."

"Giles feels terrible," said Mark, "but I really am the only one with the expertise for this aspect of the case. He said I'd be needed a few hours at most."

"Yeah, just like they said they wouldn't need you during the holiday."

"Bridget," Mark said, his voice tightening up, assuming the stern tenor Peter was much more used to hearing, "we can just do the party shopping later in the day. Don't worry about it."

"I'll go," said Peter, startling the both of them. "I'd be happy to help."

Bridget turned her blue eyes to bestow a very broad smile on him. "Oh, thank you," she said. "It'll be fun."

Peter didn't typically think of shopping as fun, but he thought with Bridget, shopping stood a good chance of actually being so.

Suddenly, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, an expression of discomfort flitted across Bridget's face. "I'll be right back. Loo calls."

Peter's thoughts hearkened back to the mention of her illness, how he had never really gotten an answer about what she'd taken ill with, when, and if she was fully recovered. Shortly after her departure, Peter asked Mark.

"Her leaving doesn't have to do with it, does it?" he concluded.

Mark smiled. "No, she's fully cured. She contracted leptospirosis whilst in Thailand, which presented itself while we happened to be on mini-break out near Wellesbourne. Hugh diagnosed her and I treated her during the week we stayed there."

"What was she doing in Thailand?" asked Peter, his mind racing over the details he could remember about that disease; predominantly, the vomiting and the high-dosage antibiotics required to treat it.

"In prison," said Mark, causing Peter to gasp. Mark then explained the circumstances under which she'd happened to land in prison, her peripheral involvement with her friend's shady acquaintance and how Mark's helping to free her brought them back together.

"Wow," said Peter, feeling sorry for his sister-in-law, and almost as sorry for Mark. The disease could be difficult to handle even with professional care. "And you cared for her on your own?"

"With Hugh's guidance, yes."

"That's no easy disease to treat," he said, stunned.

Mark smiled. "It was no picnic, that's for sure. She wasn't the easiest of patients, nearly drove me mad. Big fear of needles."

As lively, as animated and as opinionated as Peter had already seen Bridget to be, he could only imagine how she might have driven Mark crazy. "And the glutamine? How was she able to keep that down?"

Mark sighed, and he looked for a moment as if he was considering exactly what to say. "They were not oral capsules," he confessed.

"Right," said Peter knowingly.

Peter watched Mark's features soften to form a look of almost melancholy. "I'm eternally grateful that the worst of the complications were tantrums and pouting. Grateful too for her quick recovery, even though treating her _was_ like trying to pill a cat." They both chuckled, and Mark raised his glass of ale, his eyes flitting up as he took a sip, his voice going softer as he continued. "She's still rather sensitive about the whole thing, as you might well guess, so I think we best get off the subject."

Peter glanced up, turning towards the loo, and saw Bridget heading back to the table, to them; for such a monumental undertaking—difficult treatment, difficult patient, a week away from work—it must have been love, to want to spare her the indignity of such a intimately humiliating treatment administered by total strangers. The Mark he'd once known would have taken his girlfriend to some high-priced private clinic and been content to visit after business hours.

"I'm sure," said Peter, keeping his voice low. "I'm impressed, though; impressed that you managed it on your own, at home—or in a hotel, as the case may be."

Mark grinned and said, "Thanks," just as Bridget resumed her seat.

"For what?" asked Bridget.

"For supper," Mark lied smoothly, scooping up the last of his shepherd's pie with his fork. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit of an upset stomach, but it passed," she said with a pout.

"Are you sure?" asked Mark, his brow wrinkling with concern. "You still look a little unsettled."

She nodded. "Just think I ate too fast."

"You always do when we come here," teased Mark gently, taking her hand with his.

Peter slipped out his wallet and from within pulled out the money to cover the bill. He watched with amusement as Mark picked up Bridget's glass of ale and took down the last swallow as she donned her coat, as if it were something she was used to him doing, something he did all the time.

Peter grinned. He really liked seeing this new, changed, happier brother.

………

_30 Dec_

One thing that did not surprise Peter was that he was the first to rise the next morning. He went down to the kitchen, found the coffee and the press after a little digging, and even fried himself a couple of eggs. He had been so long away from a television set that he didn't have the faintest idea what was on, but with his eggs and coffee in hand, he set out to find a bit of a news broadcast.

"Morning," came Mark's voice; Peter glanced up to see his brother not dressed and ready to head with devotion to the office as Peter might have expected, but wearing a robe and looking a little dishevelled and scruffy.

"Morning," he replied. "Made a full pot of coffee there. Excellent roast."

"Thanks. Fair trade from Ethiopia."

Peter watched Mark pull down two coffee mugs, put a little sugar and milk into one of them, then fill the mugs with coffee. The whole while Mark had an utterly content look on his face.

"What is it?" Mark asked, not looking up from stirring the coffee Peter presumed to be for Bridget.

"Nothing."

"You're watching me," he said, glancing up with a smirk.

Peter laughed. "I'm sorry. This is all still kind of unusual for me."

Mark furrowed his brow.

"Not that I don't like it. It suits you well."

"What, fresh out of bed and fetching coffee?"

"No," said Peter. "The fact that you obviously love every moment of it."

At that, Mark did not respond, simply smiled, picked up the mugs off coffee and headed for the stairs. "Continue to make yourself at home," he said, just as he was about to ascend. "I have a delivery to attend to."

After finishing his own breakfast, Peter went back upstairs to dress for the day; as he passed into the bathroom intending on showering and shaving, he heard the unmistakeable sound of giggling coming from the end of the hall. Peter grinned, suspecting he might be doing that quite a lot during his stay with the two of them.

It was nearing to noon when Bridget finally found Peter in the lower sitting room. He had found an interesting and not-too-thick book, was about a third of the way through when she appeared. "Mark's off," she said, "and I'm ready if you are."

"Absolutely." He put a scrap of paper in as a bookmark, then folded it shut. He thought it best not to mention he'd been ready for at least an hour.

"Hmmm," she said, "except I am a little hungry. I could make us a couple of sandwiches if you are too."

"That sounds very nice," he said, cracking the book open once more. "Thank you."

The sandwich she made looked like a disaster, but was incredibly delicious, heaping with roast turkey, cheddar, lettuce, tomato and mustard. "I'd forgotten how much I liked turkey sandwiches," he confessed, licking the last of the mustard from his fingers. "Thanks again."

She smiled. "Thank _you_," she said in return, "for not commenting on the presentation, much like your uncle did when I first met him."

Peter laughed out loud. "I bet he did."

………

As it turned out, 'party shopping' didn't involve much more than picking up existing orders from a few stores, but conversation didn't stop for a moment, and Peter had such a good time that the boring nature of their errands was completely forgotten. It all began with Bridget asking for the most scandalous story about Mark from their childhood.

"I don't think Mark has one," offered Peter honestly. "Except maybe…" he added, drifting off in a tantalising way.

"Maybe what?" she asked.

"Well, no. It's too much. I couldn't shame him in such a way."

She gave him a dangerous look. "Peter."

With a smirk, he said confidentially, "Well, I was too small to really remember, but I hear told about a rather amusing birthday party. Seems this little blonde girl tore the place up, eating cake, tearing off her dress—"

Realising he was talking about her own paddling pool antics at age four, she reached over and smacked his arm. "You tease."

"Seriously, though," said Peter, "Mark was not one to engage in behaviour that could in any way become embarrassing. Ever. He was the original Mr Play-It-Safe, Mr Don't-Rock-The-Boat." He reached for the bag of food and their bottled waters as Bridget signed the purchase slip. "I think he took his duties as eldest son, heir to the Darcy name, a little too seriously. He was a strict older brother with a very black-and-white view of the world, a very clear idea of what he wanted to do, what he wanted to become, with a very small, rigidly inflexible margin of error."

Bridget looked thoughtful. "He seemed kind of a stiff when I met him," she said, "but he didn't seem that bad." She paused, then added, "Well, that's not true. He was horribly rude to me."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Peter. "You would not have fit into his worldview as it was at the time."

"Poor Mark," she said. "His ears must be ringing."

Peter chuckled. "You must have represented an enormous paradigm shift to him. I can just imagine him meeting you, finding he liked you, but being very conflicted about those feelings because they wouldn't have been correct for him."

Bridget laughed out loud. "Wow. Hit the nail on the head with that one. What kind of a doctor are you, anyway?"

They got to Peter's car, loaded the bag into the boot and handed Bridget her bottle of water before climbing in. "Medical doctor," he said. "But very astute observer of human nature, and, well, I knew my brother very well."

"Knew?" she asked, twisting open the cap.

"He's not the same man I tried so very hard _not_ to be like," he said.

Peter engaged the engine and they drove to the next destination, this time to pick up the champagne for the evening.

"So you can see," said Peter, "why you were such a surprise to me. I was expecting another—not to put too fine a point on it—sunken-cheeked, tight-arsed, humourless berk."

Bridget nearly choked on the sip of water she had just taken, laughing and coughing at the same time. "Oh my God. Was his ex-wife really that bad?"

Peter nodded. "Oh, _yes_."

"Poor Mark," said Bridget again, her voice sorrowful.

"No need for that," said Peter. "After all, he got better."

She turned her blue eyes to him and smiled. "I'm glad he did."

"I think you were the reason he did," said Peter frankly. He swore she blushed.

As they entered the shop for the bubbly, Bridget asked, "So tell me a little more about you, Peter. All I really know is that you're a medical doctor, you spend time helping people in third-world countries… and you bat for both sides."

He laughed. "And I'm an astute observer of human nature."

"Very true," said Bridget. "But there has to be more to you than that."

"Well," he said, considering his words. "I'm pretty liberal. The only Darcy in generations, if ever, to not vote Tory."

Bridget giggled. "I'm not surprised."

"Aside from that… I don't know what to say. I like to think of myself as deeply complex," he said in a teasing tone.

"I'll tell you what," said Bridget. "We'll have been all over this bloody town picking up stuff for the party by the time we're done, and we will deserve a treat. A movie. You can pick, and that'll tell me lots about you."

"No question," he said. "I want to watch your _Pride & Prejudice_."

She blinked in surprise. "But it's over five hours long."

"We don't have to watch the whole thing in one sitting," he said, "and besides, it will tell me a lot about you as well."

She grinned. "You have a deal."

Since they had a treat to look forward to at the finish line, they whipped through the rest of their chores. Taking several trips to do so, Peter brought all of the packages into the house, stowing those labelled as needing to stay chilled. As he did so, Bridget set up the movie, then popped some popcorn, and fetched a couple of cans of Coke.

"Just like the theatre," said Bridget as she pressed play.

They had only intended on watching maybe one or two chapters, but before they knew it, Elizabeth Bennet was revealing to Fitzwilliam Darcy that she had feelings for him.

Mark came down the steps near the end, said nothing until the final kiss concluded. "I was about to apologise for being gone so long, but I see you found something to do."

He bent to kiss his wife, but she pulled away teasingly. "You were gone a lot longer than a few hours!"

"I bring a peace offering," said Mark, indicating the trays of pizza resting on the kitchen counter. She squealed.

"Forgiven," she said, leaning forward to peck a kiss on his lips.

"One pepperoni, one sausage," he said.

"My favourite," said Peter and Bridget at the same time.

"Pepperoni?" asked Bridget.

"Sausage," said Peter.

"Ah well, nobody's perfect." Bridget winked.

They ate in companionable silence—each too hungry to talk—and only afterwards did Mark ask them how the day went.

"Perfect," said Bridget.

"Though I was beginning to be afraid there wouldn't be enough room in the Fiesta for all of it," added Peter.

"And I see Bridget managed to sucker you into her favourite mini, after all," said Mark with a grin and a glance towards his brother, dabbing his mouth off with his napkin.

"Ha!" said Bridget suddenly. "I'll have you know that he asked to watch it as a treat after all of our hard work today."

"It's true," said Peter, explaining why she'd offered him the pick, and why he picked what he did.

"You _should_ have gone into psychology," said Mark wryly.

Peter chuckled, then settled back into the sofa again. "So, did you learn what you wanted to learn about me?" he said.

"I learned that you have excellent taste in movies," Bridget said with a grin. "Seriously, though—any person who can sit through that mini and truly enjoy it is someone I want to keep around."

"Funny," said Mark, "that I was never tested in such a way."

"Not for lack of trying," retorted Bridget, "but luckily you passed a multitude of other tests."

"Did I?"

She held up her hand and pointed out her own wedding ring set. "Yep. Oh!"

Suddenly Bridget got up and dashed for the other side of the room. Peter was perplexed; Mark was too at first until he saw what she was doing, then he smiled and said confidentially to his brother, "Prepare yourself for a pictorial onslaught."

She returned with a thick book in her hands, clearly a book of photos; he knew innately what its contents would be and grinned. She sat down between the brothers and flipped it open.

Every picture, every page, helped Peter feel like he actually had been present. There were no photos of his brother's preparations that morning—which didn't surprise him, knowing his brother—but both the posed and candid shots of whom Peter could only presume were her girlfriends helping Bridget to get ready were both heart-warming and funny.

Then came the photos of the ceremony itself; of Mark's face when he first saw Bridget in her dress then when her father lifted her veil; of the two of them looking into one another's eyes with absolute adoration as they recited their vows, exchanged their rings; of the shots of whom Peter guessed were Bridget's parents, the woman's blue eyes gleaming with both happiness and tears; of the moment when Mark leaned forward to kiss his new bride.

"He did it too soon," confided Bridget with a smile. "He was supposed to wait for the vicar to say so."

"I was impatient," Mark said. "I hadn't been able to since the night before."

"Completely understandable."

They then moved through the posed shots outside, as well as a couple of clearly unposed shots—"I had no idea he was shooting us there," Bridget said; Mark countered that it remained one of his very favourites of the day—then off to the reception, highlights of the toasts, the dances (leading Peter to question who the man was that Mark was dancing with; Bridget advised with a grin that he'd meet Tom soon enough), the garter toss (causing Peter to howl with laughter when he realised it was his bachelor uncle who had caught it), and then—

"Did—did you leave by chopper?" Peter asked incredulously.

"When I realised it would take us forever and a day to get to Wellesbourne by car," said Mark, "I knew alternate means of transportation would have to be obtained."

"Ah," said Peter. "Impatient, once again?"

He swore Mark blushed at that.

"We spent a night at this place we'd been to just after… well, once before but I'd been too sick to really enjoy it," she said. "Absolute heaven. And then…"

"Paris?" supplied Peter, remembering her comment a few days earlier.

"Yes!" said Bridget. "Again, completely amazing and so, so romantic. All of it was. Let me grab the photos from Paris…"

Peter could not help but be surprised at hearing Mark being described as 'romantic', even as he knew so much about his brother had changed. Bridget stood with the photo album of the wedding and went in search of the Paris book.

"You know," said Mark quietly, "if you've had enough you can say so."

"Oh, no," said Peter. "I'm quite enjoying this."

Mark only grinned and sat back as Bridget returned with a smaller album, and he was treated to shots of their grand suite at The Ritz, of outdoor shots walking along the Seine, and a few very amusing pictures of the two of them atop the Eiffel Tower.

"What's this?" asked Peter, pointing to an extreme close-up of their faces.

"Oh," said Bridget, "I forgot I had the camera zoomed in when I pointed it at us. Mark wouldn't let me delete it from the camera."

Peter chuckled. It was funny and again, he was surprised that his brother would choose not to remove the mistake.

"There was just something so… representative of our entire wedding in that shot," explained Mark without prompt. "Charming and funny and slightly off-centre, and nothing at all like one would expect."

It was, thought Peter, a little like Bridget herself.

* * *

End notes:

The "Mr Darcy / Heathcliff" bit is from the first chapter of _BJD_, just to give credit where it's due:

_It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It's like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting 'Cathy' and banging your head against a tree._

Not at ALL a nice term, "Berk" is Cockney rhyming slang, short for "Berkshire Hunt", which rhymes with….


	2. Part 2 of 4

**Silent Observer**  
Part 2 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 21,016 (this part: 6,584)

Rating: T / PG-13

See Part 1 for the summary, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

"I want you to promise me you'll behave yourself."

It wasn't the words that surprised Peter so much as the firmness that matched the tenderness in his voice. It was not a tone he had heard his brother use with Bridget before, or with anyone else before for that matter. Peter had not intended on overhearing from his position just inside his room, the door cracked open; Mark was speaking to Bridget just inside the threshold of their own bedroom, and he clearly didn't realise their voices were carrying.

"I'll be as civil as I can," said Bridget in a conciliatory tone, "but you know I'm crap at pretending to like someone I don't."

"I couldn't not invite Camilla," said Mark, "I hope you know that. It would just look very odd to have invited everyone else except her."

"But why invite her, when everyone knows the history?" asked Bridget, her voice bordering on petulant. "I think they might well have understood if you hadn't."

"It's more complicated than that, and you know it," said Mark. "So please. Just take the high road and be the lovely, gracious hostess I know you are."

He heard Bridget make a long-suffering sigh. "I'll do my best."

"Thank you," said Mark, his voice slightly muffled as if embracing his wife. "That's the most I can ask for."

"Humpf. I'll need to be sainted after tonight."

He heard Mark chuckle. "Now I want you to finish getting ready, and I'll make sure that there's nothing we've forgotten to put out. People will start arriving within the hour."

He heard Mark's footsteps in the hall before Peter could pull the door shut. "Peter," said Mark, pausing just on the other side. "You ready?"

"Just pulling on the tie. Come on in."

Mark pushed the door open, then grinned. "You're wearing a tie and I'm not? I think that's a first."

"No tie?"

"You won't need a tie," confirmed Mark.

Peter threw it down.

"I'm done then. Why don't I come help you downstairs?"

Mark blinked; Peter realised that he wasn't supposed to have known about what Mark was going to do downstairs.

"Sorry," explained Peter. "Your voice kind of drifted down the hall."

"Ah."

They descended to the lower floor and Mark started the visual sweep over the spread in the dining room. Everything looked picture perfect, magazine perfect, rows of glasses, chilled bottles at the ready, and finger foods covering every flat surface in the room.

"Everything looks great," said Peter. "There's enough food here to feed an army."

Mark looked over to his brother wearing an almost guilty expression. "Here you are having just returned from Sudan… and us with our excesses."

Peter smiled. "Living in such conditions has made me appreciate everything that much more… even excesses."

Mark smiled reluctantly. "I would just hate to think of your regarding me with the same disdain you always held our… well, our _society_, for lack of a better term."

Peter shook his head. "No, Mark. Never. I've come to realise that you, that our mother and father, might have had the money but they never had the attitude, the air of entitlement that others had. And that we can do good things—have done good things—with it."

Mark's smile broadened. "I'm glad we agree on this."

A gentle throat-clearing caught both of their attention, and Peter turned to see his sister-in-law, looking absolutely gorgeous in a knee-length dress, deep red in colour and satiny, a flare to the skirt and a daringly low vee in the front. Her hair was pulled up at the crown and tumbled down to her shoulders in a cascade of waves; on her neck a delicate line of glittering stones. He glanced to Mark, who looked absolutely at a loss for words.

"What do you think?" she said, walking forward in heels that nearly brought her level to Mark's eyes.

Mark didn't say anything.

"I think that's a 'Wow'," said Peter with a smirk. His voice seemed to snap Mark out of it, and he looked to Peter before looking at his wife again.

"You look divine," Mark said at last. "New dress?"

"Mm-hmm." She smiled.

"Very much like it," Mark said.

"You don't say," teased Bridget. "Everything all set?"

"We're ready to rock," said Peter with a wink.

The first to arrive was a small group from Mark's office; Derek, who brought with him his wife; Giles, a portly, genial man; and Rebecca, a tall, thin young woman with a beaming smile.

Mark very promptly introduced Peter to Giles, Derek and his wife, and it was only then Peter realised he might be a little under the microscope.

"Brother?" asked Giles. "Where have you been hiding? If we met at the wedding I have no memory of it."

"He couldn't make it to the wedding," said Bridget. "He was working in Sudan. He's a doctor."

"Oh," said Derek's wife. "Is that for that Doctors Without… Walls? Windows?"

Just over her shoulder, he saw Bridget make a face, gone in an instant: she rolled her eyes, shook her head as if to say _God, what a moron_, miming hitting herself hard on the forehead.

"Borders," said Peter flatly, fighting off the guffaw burbling in his throat. "Doctors Without Borders."

She offered a tinkly, false laugh. "I can never keep it straight. Good work, though. Noble work."

It was only the last bit that redeemed her in his eyes.

"Thank you—" He fumbled for the name he had only just been given.

"Priscilla."

"Ah. Thank you, Priscilla."

Her pearly pink lips spread in a smile, and she said, obviously overly compensating, "It's been such a pleasure to meet you, Richard."

_Richard?_ he thought, feeling a little stunned as he watched her walk away for the dining room.

"Don't mind her," said Bridget in a low voice. "She's completely brainless."

"I get that impression," said Peter.

"Derek's not bad," said Bridget, "but lacking in social skills. Guess maybe that's why they work so well together."

"And what about Giles?"

"Nice," said Bridget, "but doesn't give himself enough credit. I've given him all of the bibles but he still… you know."

"Bibles?"

"The best self-help books."

Peter raised a brow. "Ah."

"His ex-wife has moved on, but he hasn't, if you know what I mean," she said confidentially.

"And that Rebecca," said Peter, watching her walk closer towards where he was standing with Bridget. "She seems very… young."

"I think she's fourteen," joked Bridget. "I don't actually know her that well, but I know Mark relies on her very much to get through his days. Hi Rebecca!" said Bridget brightly as Rebecca approached the two of them. "You're looking very nice."

It was a lovely dress, champagne-coloured and cut fairly straight from the shoulders down, but it too was rather sedate compared to Bridget's dress.

"Thank you!" she said, beaming brightly. "And thank you so much for inviting me. It's really good to know that you don't, well, you know."

Bridget nodded. "Yes, I know," she said with a smile, perplexing Peter. "Rebecca, this is Mark's brother, Peter."

"Oh! I never even knew he had a brother!" she said, reaching out her hand to shake Peter's. "I can completely see the resemblance. Very nice to meet you."

"Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet you."

She drew her brows together. "Were you not at the wedding?"

"I'm afraid I wasn't," he explained. "Work unfortunately kept me from even hearing about it until far too many months later."

"Really? So what is it that you do?" she asked, her eyes inquisitive, her curiosity sincere.

While Bridget excused herself to mingle with her guests, Peter explained to Rebecca the medical work he did around the world, at which she seemed honestly impressed.

"Oh, that's so thrilling, and you must find it so rewarding," she said.

"Yes, I do," said Peter.

She was still smiling at him, said nothing more for too long than was probably considered proper, until she seemed to snap out of it. "I'm sorry. I just can't get over how similar you look to Mark; I mean, particularly 'round the eyes." She paused. "Except the colour, of course."

"Yes, I've gotten that a lot in my lifetime," he said with a chuckle. "So, have you been to see the dining room yet? There's quite a selection of treats to choose from, wine, food, and champagne for the midnight toast."

"Not yet," she said. "Lead on."

Rebecca looked around the dining room with obvious adoration as they entered together. More people had arrived; from the look of it, more of Mark's associates. "Leave it to Mark to do this all with such style." She sighed as she said it.

Peter smiled. "Yes, they seem to have excellent taste all around."

Rebecca had the good grace to blush. "Oh, silly me, of course Bridget too. You can see her little touches all over."

"Good grief," a man's voice said. "You must be Mark's brother."

Peter whipped around to see a man he had never met before standing there with a lovely auburn-haired woman, her round face beaming brightly.

"You have me at rather a disadvantage," said Peter.

"Sorry," he said, grinning genially, thrusting his hand forward for a shake. "Jeremy, one of Mark's partners in chambers."

"Peter."

Jeremy grinned. "Nice to meet you. Couldn't believe it when Giles told me Mark's brother was here."

"Let me guess," said Peter uneasily. "You didn't know he had a brother."

"Not the faintest idea!" said Jeremy. "But that's Mark for you. Very private about his home life, to the point of us wondering if he even had _parents_, or if he'd just sprung fully formed up out of the earth."

At this Peter laughed, the tension broken; Mark hadn't kept the existence of his brother a secret for anything but his sense of privacy.

"Used to be lots worse before he met Bridge," said Magda solemnly. "Strange that I should have known both for so long and never dreamt of pairing them off."

"Is that so?" said Peter, taken aback.

"Well, I'd known Bridget for so much longer—known her since before I got married—and Mark not as well, except for things like Law Council dinners, but they seemed so very different on the surface, so I think I can be forgiven for not having made the connection sooner."

Peter chuckled.

"But she's been so good for him, wouldn't you agree, Rebecca?" Magda said as she turned suddenly; Peter didn't realise Rebecca was still in the periphery.

"Oh, yes," Rebecca said distractedly, her eyes travelling over to where Mark and Bridget were standing, he handing his wife a glass of wine. "Yes."

"And you have to admit," said Jeremy, "having been privy to all of your advice to Bridget about men when she was single, that he's been very good for her, too."

"I wouldn't argue that for a second," said Magda, holding up her hands in mock surrender.

At that moment Bridget rejoined Peter's little group with two glasses of wine, handing one to Peter, just as Rebecca wandered away. "Had to get away from that godawfully dull conversation, legal this, statutes that… to be talking of such things on New Year's Eve…"

Peter accepted the glass and took in a long sip. Chardonnay. Not his favourite type of wine, but it was certainly a good vintage considering.

"Bridget!" said Magda. "I don't see any of our other friends here. Please tell me they're coming."

"They said they would," she replied. "They're just—oh look, Cosmo and Woney."

With an excited little shriek, Magda pulled Jeremy away; it became evident that Woney, the female of the pair, was at least halfway through a pregnancy.

"Oh my God," said Magda as she embraced Woney. "You look absolutely radiant!"

Confidentially, Bridget said to Peter, "He'll be over here within thirty seconds wondering what's taking me so long to pop one out, and she… she's a bit clueless, and the most fertile cow I know." Her commentary caused him to chuckle; this attracted Mark's attention from a few feet away. Peter took in another long draw of wine, realising it was quite a good year, indeed. "And it isn't even as if he's anything to look at," she continued. "Maybe he's a real Casanova in bed, though."

"Oh, please don't put that image into my head," whispered Peter with a wink, causing her to laugh.

"But it's fun to look at people like, say, Derek, especially when they get all full of themselves, blowing hot air all over the room, and imagine what they must look like at… well, a most crucial moment."

At that Peter nearly coughed on his wine. He doubted he could look Derek or Cosmo in the eye again.

"Bridget!" came a man's voice, the aforementioned Cosmo. "You look smashing!"

"Thank you, Cosmo; you're looking well yourself," she said cordially, a smile upon her lips. "How are you? How's Woney?"

"We're both fine, though we may not make it through to midnight," he said, swirling a glass of wine in his own hand. "Tendency to swollen feet already. Which puts me to mind to ask when our little ones might have a playmate or two here at the Darcy manse."

Bridget looked to Peter with a very telling look: _see what I mean?_

"Oh, not planning anything quite yet," Bridget demurred. "When's Woney due?"

"March," he said, then, his attention drawn by the table, asked, "Oh, my. Are those prawns?"

"Yes," she said, though it was hardly necessary, because he dove for the table like a man putting out a fire.

"Charming fellow," said Peter dryly.

"You can see what brings him to our dinner parties," she said quietly as Cosmo picked up two prawns, swiped them through the cocktail sauce, and shoved them into his mouth.

He then spotted a woman he had not yet met; she had the severest bob he'd ever seen and an expression to match. "Good grief," said Peter. "Who's that, and who made her suck on a lemon?"

Bridget exploded with laughter; thankfully enough people had now arrived that her outburst wasn't nearly as noticeable as it might have been.

Mark, however, noticed.

"Peter," he said in a very low tone, veritably startling Peter out of his skin with his close proximity; his eyes were dark, his expression stern, conjuring up visions of the Mark he knew years ago. "I would appreciate it if the two of you stopped acting like giggling school children and behaved like adults."

Peter realised that his glass of wine had perhaps made him a little tipsy, certainly enough to loosen his tongue.

"Mark," said Bridget sweetly and contritely, taking her husband's hand. "I'm sorry. We were just bonding, and having a little fun. I didn't mean to corrupt your brother."

Just like that, Mark seemed to melt; the hard lines of his mouth relaxed, his eyes softened, his lips turned up in a subtle smile. Peter wondered if Mark knew exactly how tightly she had him wrapped around her finger. "It's all right," said Mark, clearing his throat. She stepped forward and gave Mark a quick kiss on the lips.

"Regarding my corruption, it's not like she had far to go," said Peter with a wink. Mark chuckled.

"More wine?" asked Bridget, turning to Peter, holding her hand out.

"Absolutely."

She flashed another smile at Mark then walked to refill their glasses. To Peter's amusement, he watched Mark looking fixedly at her backside.

"I had no idea," said Peter.

"What? About what?" asked Mark, perplexed.

"That you were so easily bribed now."

Mark's brows came together in obvious confusion until Peter's meaning set in, and then he laughed sheepishly and looked down. "It's true," he said confidentially. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm hopelessly lost."

"I don't think it's much of a secret, Mark," Peter said, equally quietly.

Bridget returned with another chilled glass of the Chardonnay and another of her winning smiles when something—or someone—caught her eye at the entrance of the room. Her smile vanished in the blink of an eye; the set of her jaw went as if stone and her eyes fixed like an eagle's on a woman who had just entered.

She seemed about Mark's age, attractive and slim, with primly coiffed chestnut hair and hazel eyes. She had a slightly apprehensive look on her face, which only slightly dissipated when she saw Mark. She then came nearer to their little group with a small, obviously forced smile.

"Hello Mark," she said; "Thank you for inviting me." Turning to Bridget, she added stiffly, "Bridget. You look… nice." Then the newcomer turned to Peter when it was obvious Peter was not going anywhere. "And you are…?"

"I'm Peter, Mark's brother."

"Brother!" she said; her smile broadened, became a little more genuine. "And I thought there was nothing left in this world that could surprise me. I'm Camilla. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

"So what is it that you do, Peter?"

"I'm a doctor. I work with…" he went on, describing what felt like the hundredth time what it was he did for a living. He remained as gracious and attentive as he could during this exchange, but it was Bridget's continued seriousness, the veritable wall of ice surrounding her, that really held Peter's interest. Her eyes flickered for a second to something just over Camilla's shoulder. Peter looked too and saw a man had arrived wearing an iridescent sharkskin suit and a loud tie.

"If you'll excuse me," Bridget said coldly, "I have guests to greet."

She walked away to the man, giving him a great big hug as he pecked her on the cheek.

"That," said Camilla, "is an interesting suit. Bridget sure has interesting friends."

There was nothing sincere in her voice, only the slightest bit of sarcasm, but clearly not enough to send Mark into a quiet fury. Peter saw Bridget glancing back towards where the three of them stood, looking rather annoyed.

"Yes," said Mark coolly to Camilla. "Bridget has a very eclectic set of friends, ones I'm proud to have met and gotten to know."

"I bet he's quite popular with the," she said, then continued with particular emphasis, "_young men_ in his circle."

It was not really what she said that he found so offensive, but what she meant by it; clearly, she intended on insulting his sexuality based on assumption alone. Peter muttered an "excuse me" under his breath, then went away towards Bridget.

It was no wonder she disliked this woman so much; yet Peter sensed something even deeper than mere dislike.

"Peter," said Bridget as he came nearer, finally looking more like herself, but her eyes not seeming to want to tear away where Mark still stood chatting with that offensive woman. Peter wondered what the history was there; was Camilla an ex-girlfriend? Could Bridget possibly be feeling jealous? Could Mark still be so emotionally daft as to not realise why Bridget was feeling the way she was? "Sorry to have abandoned you to that… well. I have someone I'd like you to meet. My very good friend Tom. Tom, this is Peter. Mark's brother, like I was telling you."

Tom smiled, and from the appreciative way his eyes travelled down then back up again, he suspected that Camilla's assumption, however hatefully made, was probably right. "I can _definitely_ see the family resemblance. Very nice to meet you."

"Tom stood up with me at the wedding," explained Bridget. "The vicar called him the 'mate of honour'."

Peter could not help but chuckle, suddenly recollecting that this must have been the friend Bridget mentioned back at his parents' house. "Very nice to meet you, too, Tom," said Peter, then took in another long swallow of wine.

"I hear you're a doctor," said Tom, his left eyebrow flicking up in a very flirtatious manner.

"Yes, I am, but if I tell the story once more tonight I might have to go to the top floor of this house and hurl myself off."

Tom laughed just as Peter heard a female laugh from behind him; from the way Bridget cringed, he suspected it was Camilla who had done so.

"What a cackling cow," said Tom in a dismissive tone.

Bridget smiled uneasily and said, "I think I see Shaz and Jude. Will you excuse me?"

Without waiting for a response, she wandered away and out of the room.

"Don't go anywhere," said Tom with a little wink. "I hope to persuade you to tell me all about your work without inspiring you to jump off of a ledge." He beat a hasty retreat after Bridget.

It was time to get the story out of Mark. Why, if this woman was an ex-girlfriend, would he subject Bridget to her presence?

He found Mark had finally torn himself away from Camilla and was pouring himself a generous glass of wine. "Peter," he said. "Having a nice time, I hope?"

"Pretty nice," he said, "though I do need to talk to you."

Mark looked at him, visibly shocked. "What's wrong?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Camilla was relatively nearby, now engaged with Derek and Priscilla. "The other room, if you don't mind."

Mark blinked a few times, then walked out to the sitting room, which was as yet devoid of partygoers. "Peter, you're worrying me. What's going on?"

"Camilla."

"What about her?"

"Who is she? Old girlfriend?"

"What?" he asked, surprised again, his face actually revealing his disgust for the very notion. "No. She's a colleague in chambers."

It was Peter's chance to be taken aback. "Then you have to explain to me the tension, the coldness I'm sensing from Bridget; she obviously does not like Camilla, and yet, you've invited her and she's come."

Mark sighed, then launched into the explanation; Peter sensed that much was abbreviated. "Last spring I was wrongly accused of a crime I did not commit, one that threatened everything I have worked for: my credibility, my legal career, my very freedom. Bridget never doubted me for a moment, and I owe my freedom and my cleared name chiefly to her. Camilla made the crucial mistake of believing I had done it. Mind you, this was at the goading of the actual culprit, another man from chambers. Camilla has made sufficient amends, and I am convinced of her contrition."

"I still don't understand," said Peter.

"You might have noticed in your short acquaintance with my wife," said Mark, "that Bridget is very generous by nature; too generous, in fact, not to forgive those who have hurt her. She is, however, unable to forgive Camilla for the doubts she had about me. For hurting me."

Peter found himself momentarily speechless. "Even though," he began at last, "you have yourself forgiven her."

Mark nodded. "Yes," he said, to reiterate. "And to Bridget's credit, as you might have noticed, Camilla does not make it easy for Bridget to either like her or forgive her."

Peter chuckled. "I appreciate your frankness on this subject. What an awful time that must have been."

"Worst time of my life, though I will say it had the unexpected benefit of Bridget winning Nick's affection for all time." He sipped his wine again.

"I was wondering how that came to pass," remarked Peter. "He doesn't even refer to his own nephews with such endearment. Just 'daft creature' if we're lucky."

Mark smiled, then looked wistful again. "Don't know what I would have done without her."

Peter grinned. "Maybe someday you can tell me all about what it was she did, exactly."

"All I'll say is that she watches too much telly." Mark reached out to pat his younger brother affectionately on the shoulder. "I'd better go find her before she claws out Camilla's eyes."

Peter laughed, and the two of them headed back to the party.

"Mark!" came a woman's voice within seconds of them hitting the foyer. "Happy Fucking New Year!"

This surely had to be one of Bridget's friends, blonde hair, dark eyes, very bright smile, as she reached out and gave Mark a big hug.

"Hello, Sharon," Mark said with a laugh, then said in a teasing voice, "Not your first party tonight, is it?"

"Hell no," she said. She raised her eyebrows as she finally noticed that Mark was not alone. "So who's this?"

"This is my brother Peter."

"Brother!" she replied. "I should have guessed. Spitting image, really. Except you…" She leaned in close, closer than a sober woman ever would. "Mmm. You have blue eyes."

"I have so noticed," Peter said with a smirk.

"Have you seen Bridget?" Mark asked.

"Not recently," said Sharon, still fixated, apparently, on Peter's eyes.

"Maybe she's out back, burying the body," joked Peter, at which Mark laughed.

"So where's Jude?" asked Mark.

"Getting us some drinks," she replied, breaking away at last, but only for a moment. "So what is it that you do, Peter?"

"Doctor." With some amusement, he realised his answer was getting shorter every time he gave it.

"Oooh."

Peter looked down to his own glass and found it empty once more. "Come on," he said. "Seems I need a top off, and there's yet another friend of Bridget's I need to meet."

………

For a party like that one, there would undoubtedly be a price to pay. There was. Not only did Peter's head pound like the bells of Notre Dame the following morning, but he had a bright and cheery elder brother smugly smiling at him as Peter sat at the kitchen table. It was all he could do to keep his head in one piece, supporting it up with both of his hands as he rested heavily on his elbows.

"Good morning, sunshine," said Mark.

"Unless you have coffee and some aspirin," Peter said gruffly, "bugger off."

Mark chuckled. "Dove a little too deep into that bottle last night, didn't you?"

"Don't make me waste words."

Before him appeared a cup of black coffee and two headache tablets. Gratefully he took the pills, swallowing them down with a good portion of the coffee.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Peter groaned, but the coffee was already having a positive effect on his head. "I remember dancing with your wife, and being handed a glass of champagne."

"Again: one of many."

He had been expecting a very different sort of party, had been pleasantly surprised by the good time he'd had, especially after the arrival of Bridget's friends… even if he had overindulged with the alcohol. It had, after all, been a long time since he'd had the opportunity to imbibe. "How much of a fool did I make of myself?"

"Not too much," Mark said. "You seemed to have a pretty excellent time." Mark took a seat too. "Do you remember the two of you dancing on the coffee table?"

"The two…"

"Bridget and yourself. Have pictures on my mobile if you don't believe me. In fact, I don't think I'm the only one."

Peter said nothing.

"You must remember the stroke of midnight, though."

Peter blinked, struggling to recollect.

"Ah," said Mark. "That would, I presume, be a no." He sat down at the table with his own coffee. The sound of the cup hitting the table resounded through this head.

"Damn you for not having an hangover," said Peter, whose cranial clouds had only just begun to clear. "I presume you're going to enlighten me?"

"You had apparently taken it in your head to dispense some charity on poor, lonely, ice queen Camilla and made sure she was the one you kissed at midnight." At his assuredly horrified look, Mark laughed. "Don't worry, it was chaste. But you got a rousing round of applause from both sides of the room."

"Oh Christ."

He finished his coffee and held up his cup in a silent request for more. Mark obliged.

"So where is your beautiful wife, anyhow?"

"Working on her coffee. I told her I was going back up in ten minutes with a spray bottle of cold water and an intent on using it if she had gone back to sleep."

Peter laughed, a new, fresh pain shooting through his skull.

Mark added, "She's got three to go." He picked up the plant mister and shook it menacingly.

"Maaaark." It was Bridget, sounding whiny and pained.

"Ah," said Peter. "Perhaps the spray bottle won't be necessary after all."

"I'd better go and help her down to the kitchen," he said, heading for the stairs. "That she got down this far on her own is something of a miracle."

Mark returned momentarily with Bridget, his arm around her waist to support her as they took the stairs at a very slow pace. When she saw Peter, she offered a wan smile, set her empty coffee cup down on the table before sitting heavily herself.

"Morning," she said.

"Afternoon," corrected Mark in an insufferably perky manner.

"Hush."

Without a word Mark swept the cup from the table and brought it back to the kitchen to pour her some more.

"Ugh," she said, resting her forehead down on her folded arms. "Bloody morning person."

Peter chuckled. "Happy New Year."

"Mmm, remains yet to be seen," she replied, her voice muffled. It was only when Mark set the cup down that she dared look up again.

"Darling," said Mark, "stand up."

"What? I just want to rest my head."

Mark reclaimed his own seat. "Come here."

She wrinkled her brow.

"On my lap," Mark elaborated.

She stood, took a place sitting across his lap, then leaned on him, resting her temple against his collarbone. He raised his hand up and began to massage her head with his fingers. Based on the sounds she was making, it definitely felt good.

"I'm sure I had a very nice time last night," she said. "Damnable champagne."

Mark chuckled. "There is plenty of existing photo evidence."

"I can't even remember midnight," she lamented. "Can't remember what I was doing, who I was kissing."

"Me," said Mark stiffly, sounding offended as he stopped his ministrations.

Peter tried to stifle his laugh but was not entirely successful.

"Of course you, Mark," she said, aware enough at least to attempt to backpedal out of the hole she'd driven herself into. "I mean I just don't remember it."

Mark said nothing, though he did look slightly mollified, and carried on with rubbing her scalp.

"We danced on a table," said Peter, finishing his coffee.

"Huh," she said, her eyes closed. "Surprised Mark let me."

"You tried to get on the dining room table," Mark said, "but I stopped you."

She laughed then made a face indicating doing so hurt.

"Can't sit around too much longer," said Mark, turning his head to place a kiss into her hair. "We have to get dressed and leave soon."

"Leave?" Peter asked, just as Bridget said:

"Oh, bugger!"

"Where are we going?" asked Peter.

"To Bridget's parents'," said Mark. "We're obliged to attend the annual New Year Turkey Curry Buffet."

Peter stared at Mark. "Curry buffet?"

"You heard me correctly. Of course, you are not obligated to join us if you don't want to," said Mark.

"Hm," Peter said after a moment of consideration. "Don't think I'd miss this for the world."

In a sulky voice, Bridget said, "You're driving."

"Yes, dear," Mark answered obediently.

………

The shower Peter had helped to refresh him, and Bridget looked equally perked up, but the both of them ended up dozing off on the ride back to Grafton Underwood despite everything. Peter could not help but feel like a boy of seven again as they went into Bridget's parents' home, met her mother, saw the look of glee in her eyes at meeting him. It terrified him a little.

"Peter Darcy!" Pam Jones said effusively. "Where on earth have you been hiding all of these years?"

"Most recently, the Sudan!" supplied Bridget eagerly. "He's a doctor."

Her blue eyes widened. "My word!" she said, her hand fluttering over her chest. "How exciting!"

"Indeed," said Peter. "To tell the truth, I'm happy to have something a little less exciting for a while. I'm settling back here in England."

"Really?"

The way she drew out the word, the way her eyes widened again, and the way Bridget reacted (resigned horror) made him more than a little afraid.

"Mother," said Bridget. "You will _not_."

"I just want my family to be happy," Pam said with a pout. Peter recognised at once where Bridget had inherited the trait from.

Pam led them into the sitting room. It was filled with older family friends; Peter swore they were the youngest people there. He saw his own father and mother standing in the dining room with drinks, chatting to a couple of people he didn't even recognise.

"You must be Peter."

Peter turned to see a genial-looking, balding man with spectacles and a slightly ruddy face, smiling and proffering his hand for a shake.

"Long time no see," he continued. "I don't know if you remember me, son. Bridget's father, Colin."

"Not really," Peter admitted, shaking his hand, "but it's nice to get reacquainted with you."

"Make yourself comfortable, have a drink," he said, then to Bridget and Mark, added, "So we're breaking with tradition this year?"

Mark laughed. "Sorry. Fresh out of holiday-themed jumpers."

"I'm not sure a drink is overly appealing to either of the two of us right now," said Bridget.

"I'll have some wine, thanks," said Mark. "Red."

"Coming right up." Colin wandered away.

Pam spoke up. "I hope you didn't overdo it last night," she said.

"Mum," said Bridget. "It was New Year's Eve."

Pam made a tsking sound.

"We had a very nice time," said Peter. "The champagne was extraordinarily good, so who can blame us for overindulging a bit?"

Pam looked doubtful, but said, "I suppose." She sighed, then looked between Mark and Peter with a sly grin. "Oh, I don't know how your mother handles it, having two sons who are so extraordinarily clever and handsome to boot…. I can't imagine there wasn't just about anything you couldn't talk your way out of, or convince her of."

"We were angels," said Peter, glancing to Mark with a wink. "Perfect and never got in trouble."

"Never," added Mark with a smirk.

"Bridget was always into trouble as a child," continued Pam. "Always managed to wheedle her way out of punishment, though."

Peter was just thinking how familiar that sounded when Mark said, "Oh, she still does. On both counts."

Bridget responded by playfully smacking him on the shoulder.

Colin returned with Mark's wine and a mixed drink for Bridget, which she accepted and sipped daintily. "Thanks, Dad," she said.

"Takes the edge off," he said quietly.

"Duty calls," announced Pam. "Must mingle. Come on, Colin."

Colin gave his daughter a trapped look, though smiled as he said, "Coming, my dear."

Shortly after that Peter spotted a familiar head of steel grey hair. It was Nick, coming in from the backyard, clearly stuffing a packet of cigarettes back into his coat pocket. He looked vaguely appalled to be there, which didn't surprise Peter.

He did seem to brighten upon noticing his nephews and Bridget.

"Every year they do this?" he asked incredulously, coming close to their little group.

"Mm-hmm," responded Bridget. "Used to hate them, but it's here that I first met Mark, so they've grown on me."

"Hm," he said, giving vague approval.

"Oh," said Peter, grinning. "A meeting at the Turkey Curry Buffet. Please do tell. I want to hear how holiday-themed jumpers fit into the mix."

Bridget grinned. "Well. I came two years ago like I always do, and the minute I got here my mother shoos me upstairs to put on this… atrocity of an outfit. There's just no better word, 'atrocity'." Mark chuckled, though wisely didn't react any more strongly than that. "Don't know what I was thinking or where my willpower had gone to resist wearing such a thing. Then I'm pulled against my will to meet Mark, who was wearing—"

"—something equally atrocious," Mark supplied. "A jumper with a giant reindeer face on it."

Peter reacted in disgust before he could stop himself. Must have been their mother's doing. "Ugh."

"So under these circumstances is this meeting," continued Bridget, "during which I pick up pretty straightaway he does not want any part of, either. Not exactly ego-boosting. Then I do what I always do when I'm uncomfortable, nervous, feeling about two inches high: I autowitter. And for my efforts, I'm rewarded with a curt dismissal in favour of turkey curry."

Peter cringed again. Mark, though, did have the decency to look humiliated.

"The _coup de grâce_, though, is later, when I overhear Mark talking to his mum."

"Bridget, please," said Mark.

Playfully she looked to him, and carried on. "Apparently tired of being forced onto someone so clearly beneath him," she said with a wink, "he completely unloads on his mother."

"Mark," snapped Nick. "You didn't."

"Oh yes," she continued. "He did. And I overheard it. And he and his mum knew I overheard it. And that was the end of it."

"Until several months later," Mark said, "when I'd had a chance to come to my senses."

"Appalling," said Nick.

"Oh, Uncle Nick," she said affectionately. "He's more than made up for it."

"What was it that he said?" pressed Nick, stern as ever.

"Nick," said Mark. "It's enough to know that it was not kind… and not fair."

Nick simply narrowed his eyes. "You're very lucky she ever deigned to forgive you," he said at last.

"That's incredible," said Peter at last.

"It is quite a story," said Bridget.

"No," said Peter. "Incredible that a man like Nick, with a talent for speaking about women the way he always used to, is so won over by you."

Nick's only response was a scathing look, leaving Peter wondering if the gruff old man had softened with age, had lost some of the sharpness of his wit. At least that was what he thought at first, until Nick added:

"Not all women are as worthy, you daft boy."

At that, Mark really started to laugh. Peter really couldn't blame him.

The man hadn't lost anything, after all.

It was not long before the curry extravaganza began, and as they stood in the buffet line Peter was accosted by more old family friends who wanted to know where he'd been and what he'd been doing. He began to feel a little like an automaton delivering pre-recorded responses on demand, much like the night before. It was genuinely good, however, to be surrounded by so many people who had true concern for him, and were welcoming him back with open arms.

"This," said Peter as they stood and ate from their plates, "cannot compare to anything I had whilst in India, but I have to admit it's pretty damned good."

He could tell by the expression on his uncle's face that his uncle did not concur, but continued eating nonetheless.

Bridget laughed. "No, I don't suppose it would," she said. "I'm not sure whose recipe it is or where it came from, but has really helped to make turkey leftovers palatable over the years."

Mark chuckled.

"I feel though like we ought to be at the children's table," admitted Peter.

"I'm sure if there were tables," said Bridget, "we would be."

"Speak for yourself, child," said Nick.

"You'd be there, too," she said teasingly, "unable to resist scolding us."

Peter waited for the sharp look, the acerbic retort, but none was forthcoming, surprising him once again.

………

They didn't stay long past the meal, since the next day meant a return to work for the lot of them, but all in all, it ended up being a very good time.

"I return to the office tomorrow," said Peter, "in the hopes they'll have a place for me."

"I'm sure they will," said Elaine. "If not tomorrow, then soon."

Peter nodded.

"So how is your stay going?" she asked.

"Fine. We're all getting on very well."

"I'm glad to hear," said Elaine, "and I'm not surprised."

The drive was made shorter by lively conversation. Bridget declared she would see about working from home to keep Peter company if need be.

"That isn't necessary."

"No, no, I do it all the time," she said.

Mark laughed under his breath.

"What's so funny?"

"When she works from home," he said, "she never gets anything done."

"Do so," said Bridget, reaching to place her hand over Mark's.

"Do not," he retorted.

"You can count my words if need be," she said.

"You're on," Mark replied.

When they got back to the house, Mark announced he had to get his papers in order for the next day; Bridget announced she would head to the kitchen and prepare a light supper of sandwiches for all and sundry.

"I'm going to put on ten stone staying with you two," quipped Peter.

Bridget laughed. "You sound like me when I stay with your parents."

"I'm going to catch up on my email, see if my old friend Charlie's written back. He's on staff at a local hospital, has had his ear to the ground for me."

"Well, just come to the kitchen when you're through," said Bridget; with that, the three of them went their separate ways.

Charlie had indeed written back, said that he would definitely put in a good word for a position that was open. He also had a message from his ex in Hong Kong, with whom he was still on good terms, so sent back a brief reply saying where he was now, that he was well, and glad she was too. He then took a few moments to review his curriculum vitae, which he was satisfied was as current and as accurate as it was going to get, before closing his notebook computer.

Really craving that sandwich now, Peter scaled down to the main floor then further down to the kitchen, but stopped in his tracks when he realised what he was interrupting:

On the table sat three sandwiches, two of which had generous bites missing from them; similarly, there were three glasses of milk, two of them, partially drunk. Seated at the table were his brother and Bridget. Mark was leaning over, cupping her face in his hands with clear reverence as he kissed her tenderly, one of his hands raising to comb his fingers into her hair as the kiss broke apart. Mark touched his forehead to hers then placed a tender little kiss on her lips before pulling away to look at her.

The show of such genuine love and affection put a smile on Peter's face… and a bit of an emotional lump in his throat. If he had needed any further proof of his brother's love for or his happiness with his wife, that spontaneous kiss would certainly have sufficed.

Peter cleared his throat gently to announce his presence, then said, "Turkey and Swiss. Delightful." He took the seat at the table with the pristine sandwich.

"Peter," said Mark, sitting upright, clearing his own throat, looking a little sheepish. A glance to Bridget revealed she was a bit pink, too.

"Mark," he said in response, "do you think I don't know you kiss your wife? Or that you like to do so?"

Bridget giggled despite her embarrassment.

"I'd think you'd gone mental if you didn't," Peter said, then took a great big bite of his sandwich. "Mmm. Excellent sandwich. Just the right amount of mustard. Thank you."

"Any time," said Bridget, resuming the consumption of her own sandwich.

Within moments of finishing their sandwiches, the two of them rose, exchanging tentative, almost shy glances. "We're… um. Off to bed," explained Mark as Bridget preceded him up the stairs.

"I'd think you were mental if you didn't like to do that, either," said Peter with a grin. To this, Mark said nothing, his thoughts given away only by a very small smirk.

After they left, he took his time with his own sandwich, drinking his own milk, gazing out into the star-speckled sky through the windows on the lower level.

It was good to be back.

He wandered upstairs afterwards; on his way to the loo, he heard firsthand exactly to what Nick had been referring: unrestrained, passionate sounds in both higher and lower timbres coming from the master bedroom. He chuckled to himself, happy for his brother once more, to truly be in love with someone who loved him in return.


	3. Part 3 of 4

**Silent Observer**  
Part 3 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 21,016 (this part: 3,249)

Rating: T / PG-13

See Part 1 for the summary, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

"Good morning," Peter said, surprised upon reaching the kitchen to find Bridget and not Mark.

"Morning," she replied, stirring her coffee and yawning, still dressed in a robe.

"Where's Mark?"

"Gone already. Early court appearance." She picked up the cup, drew a long sip, closing her eyes. "Mmm. What would we do without coffee?"

Peter chuckled. "Don't know, and don't want to know. Hope there's some left for me."

"Oh yes, please, don't let me stand in your way."

He poured a cup, took a sip, and sighed. It really was very good coffee.

"Working from home, then?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm," she said.

"I'm not really staying here, though," he said. "I have to go down, check in, see what the status of my request is."

She looked a little crestfallen. "Oh. I guess I misunderstood."

"I won't be gone all day," he added. "So you can still keep me company."

She smiled, then looked inspired. "Might I go with you? It would be good for, you know, research purposes."

"Of course. I certainly don't mind."

She beamed a smile. "Give me five minutes to get dressed. It doesn't take me that long, I promise."

"Sure," he said. "It'll give me time to have something to eat."

Peter was just finishing off a bowlful of muesli mixed with vanilla yoghurt when she reappeared, dressed and made up, her hair pulled back into a barrette. "I'm ready when you are."

"Let me gather my things, and we can be off."

They climbed into Peter's car—which looked distinctly out of place on Holland Park Avenue—and were off to the London office. The one thing that could be said about being in Bridget's company was that her stories were always entertaining, and the silences in her presence were never uncomfortable.

Peter, though, was sure it couldn't have always been that way between her and his brother; he recalled the story of their awkward first meeting, knew the man Mark used to be, and was suddenly curious for the rest of the story.

She was unnaturally silent during their time in the office, quietly observing and even making notes, and only asking a few questions of his colleagues. After business was taken care of and they were back on the sidewalk in front of the building, Peter asked, "So, was the trip worth your while?"

"Absolutely!" She folded her palm-sized notebook closed and tucked it into her handbag. "I'm in such awe of what you all do. I wouldn't last a minute."

"I think you'd do better than you think you would," said Peter as they approached his car, then settled into it, preparing to drive off. "Onward home?"

"Have a better idea," she said. "Totally forgot I planned on meeting my friends for lunch. Want to come with?"

"If they don't mind," said Peter.

"Chuh, of course they don't mind," said Bridget in reply. "They really liked you."

He grinned. "They seemed a nice bunch, though I admit I had a bit too much to drink to remember most of the evening."

Bridget chuckled. "Don't worry. We're all used to it."

As he pulled away from the kerb, instructed to head towards the Café Rouge nearby, he asked, "Bridget, do you mind me being a little nosy about my brother and yourself?"

He glanced to her, saw she looked a little perplexed.

"I'm just trying to work out exactly how the transformation of my brother occurred," he said with a smile.

"No, I don't suppose I mind," she said with a smile. "If we get there early, I could probably get the whole story out before they show up."

She started the story as they drove, at the event a few months after that initial disastrous meeting.

"Our next meeting… well, inauspicious and mortifying. I was getting ready for what I hoped would be a date, waiting for a call… huge crush on boss. I worked at the time for Pemberley Press," she said; the name rang a familiar bell to Peter, but he was not sure why. "My dad showed up, depressed because of some stuff that had been going on with my mum; then Tom called to tell me that he'd lost his mobile and to please check the trash… which I had already taken to the dustbin. So there's me, in my robe, a towel, curlers and nothing more, digging through the dustbin for Tom's ringing phone, when I hear it's been answered. By Mark."

"Oh crikey," said Peter. "How the hell—"

"Happened to be jogging by. You saw how close we are to my old place."

Peter shook his head. He wondered how Mark would have felt to see her outside like that, half-dressed, unkempt and pawing through the trash… and Mark a man who meticulously folded his underpants from the time they were children.

"Never even got that call for all my troubles. Then, next… God. There was a book launch for _Kafka's Motorbike_, this sort of appalling pseudo-philosophical tome of no importance whatsoever, except in how it figures into the timeline with your brother."

Peter chuckled. "Think I saw that book on the seconds table. Didn't look very promising."

She made a face as they parked; they then walked to the door and were seated at a table for five. After ordering drinks, she continued, "So anyway. I'm dressed that night to the nines: little black dress, hair swept up, et cetera. And who should I run into that night but Mark, looking very, very different from New Year's Day, very smartly dressed in a dark suit. Glass of red wine; that I remember too. Caught me completely off-guard."

Their drinks arrived; she'd gotten a Bloody Mary.

She continued: "Anyway, shots were again fired across the bow, where he decides to mention our acquaintance as children—specifically, the padding pool—" Peter winced. "—to both my colleague and his, who was a witch of a woman, by the way; practically baring fangs and talons at me should I dare to get too close." Peter remembered Mark mentioning how he'd saved him a second time from a woman very similar to his first wife. "Then I see him looking at my boss, somewhere between shock and murderous glare."

"So who was your boss?"

She looked sepulchral. "Daniel Cleaver."

Hence the name of Pemberley Press sounding so familiar.

"I had no idea, none at all at the time, of what the truth of that history was. I had no clue why he and Daniel were staring at one another so intently for even that briefest of moments. So when Daniel swept up to me after an embarrassing moment on stage introducing the Daniel's boss, offering to take me to dinner, I accepted." She looked down into her cup. "I believed the lie he told me, that Mark had slept with his fiancée, as the truth, because I didn't really know any better at the time. I was too stupid to not be completely overwhelmed by his charm—yes," she said as if mortified, "we did sleep together, and we did start seeing each other.

"The next time I saw Mark was the weekend of the—God, I hate to think of it now—the Alconburys' Tarts and Vicars fete. Except no one told me the fancy dress part was cancelled. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We—that is to say, Daniel and I—had made a mini-break weekend of it. Who else was there, though, but Mark and that witch Natasha? We were out rowing on the river, all of us; them in their own boat, and Daniel and I each had our own. We were just goofing around, I mean, you know Daniel, right? You know despite everything he's a funny guy. And he's making me laugh with his rude limericks and then he falls in the water, and I'm just howling, breathless with laughter." She stopped to sip again at her drink. "The funny thing about what I remember from that moment… I remember looking up to see Mark looking at me with the _oddest_ expression; odd in that it was the… well, _softest_ expression I'd ever seen on his face."

Peter smiled, drawing off of his own ale. Mark with a soft, unguarded expression? He must already have had feelings for Bridget, though Peter was willing to bet anything Mark was fighting them every step of the way.

"The next day was said party. Daniel claims sudden, urgent business back in London, so I get all dolled up as a bunny girl, only to find no one else had. Utterly mortifying, and of course, Mark was there with the praying mantis. She seemed to revel in my embarrassment, but Mark actually looked… well, like he really felt badly for me."

She finished her drink, indicated a second wouldn't go awry; they weren't particularly strong or large. "There was another butting-of-heads moment with your brother, where I thought he was badmouthing Daniel unfairly; little did I know. We parted, once more, on not-speaking terms. And that night… that's when I learned Daniel had really left early to see another woman. Broke my heart."

"I'm sorry," said Peter.

Bridget laughed. "I'm not, all things considered. So let's see. That was Tarts and Vicars… next encounter was on Bonfire Night. Few days before my birthday, and the same day I'd made an arse of myself, literally, on television. I was invited to one of my friend Magda's dinner parties, usually filled to the brim with smug married couples, but this time, Mark was there, again with the stick insect Natasha. It was horrible, feeling the scrutiny of all of these couples, asking me why I'm still single. Mark looked surprised to hear that Daniel and I had split.

"That was the night of the real shock. I'd decided I couldn't take another moment, and shot out of there the second I graciously could. Mark followed me down. And that's when he told me that despite our bad encounters, missteps and misspeaks, despite everything… he liked me, just as I am."

She stopped to sip her drink again.

"Don't think I don't know now how difficult it must have been for him to do that."

"No bloody kidding."

Bridget laughed, then got serious again.

"It caught me pretty off guard that night. Caused me some real turmoil, because here's this man who says he likes me despite how highly flawed I am, but he also went and slept with Daniel's fiancée—remember, I didn't know the real story yet. I couldn't stop thinking about it though. About his admission."

She sat up straight in her chair. "So, after being dumped by my boss, I had gotten a new job in television. I go in on the morning of my birthday and find I'm being given another chance on air… to try to interview the defendants in a really huge human rights case. I think you know where this is going."

Peter chuckled, drinking more of his ale.

"I completely cocked up, going to the shop for cigs and sweets, and miss them leaving the courts. I turn around and who's standing there but Mark. Who is, of course, the lawyer of the people I was supposed to have tried to interview."

"What a coincidence."

"I know, right?" she said, smiling. "He offers to save my hide and lets me interview his clients. And it's then, as he's talking with such… such _passion_ about his client, about his work, that I am literally rendered speechless." She chuckled low in her throat. "It's really obvious on the playback of the video."

"You should show it to me sometime."

"Oh! I will! Just remind me later." She grinned. "So I was practically the queen of the day, having snagged a very high profile interview and riding on cloud nine at work, planning on making a birthday dinner with friends… except my cooking was a complete disaster. Lost the tuna steaks, soup turned blue—don't ask," she said before he could. "—and I got orange parfait all over me, just as there's a knock on the door. Guess who."

Peter felt his eyes go wide. "Mark?"

She nodded. "Again, I wouldn't know until much later how hard it'd been for him to work up the courage to come to my place. Must have remembered where I lived from our ill-fated dustbin meeting.

"It was a little weird at first, a little awkward. To have been at odds all this time… and then suddenly not only is there a détente, but there's way more than that… attraction, at the very least. He was totally kind, very helpful, funny, witty… I realised I really did like him. Which makes what happened later all that much more horrible to think of now."

She looked down.

"Good God," said Peter. "What happened?"

"Daniel showed up, Mark punched him out… and I took Daniel's side."

"But you still thought Daniel's lie was the truth?"

She nodded. "Mark still left, leaving me feeling pretty conflicted, yet again. And then I left Daniel bleeding on the street."

"Good for you," said Peter. "So obviously there's a happy ever after. What happened next?"

Bridget smiled. "Christmas time. Was at my parents for the holiday—they had worked their own problems out, thank heavens—and it was the next day, Boxing Day, they reminded me it's the Darcys' Ruby Wedding party. I nearly refused going… but it was an offhanded comment from my mother that finally clued me in to the truth. How Christmas was always such a bad time of year for Mark, how he'd caught his wife with the best man from his wedding, his best friend from Cambridge… I realised I'd been completely duped. In record time I got dressed, and we got over to the party, eventually."

"Too bad I missed the party," Peter said, "for more than just the hallmark anniversary."

For a moment she looked sorry she'd brought it up. "As soon as I get there," she said, "I find Mark, apologised for having been lied to. I then also spilled my guts out to him, how I liked him too, and how I might like to see him again."

"Happy ever after."

"Not yet." She took another drink. "He turned around and announced—well, your dad announced—that Mark's not only leaving to take a partnership in New York but was engaged to Natasha."

"Obviously he didn't go."

"Oh, no," said Bridget. "He went." Peter sat there silently, knowing she would continue, and she did. "Friday before New Year's, the twenty-ninth, as my friends were coming to take me away to Paris to take my mind off of what had become a huge disappointment, he showed up at my flat."

"But you said he went."

"He did." She grinned. "But he came back."

Peter grinned too.

"That night was filled with a few more misunderstandings," she said, "but in the end, it was Mark and me and a lovely, long night… and from then on… I _knew_."

Peter grinned. It had always seemed such a cliché, that when it was right, a person just _knew_, yet here was Bridget saying that very thing; he suspected Mark might say the same if asked. Something he remembered Mark saying though about his freeing her brought the two of them back together caused Peter to sit back in his chair. "So what was the whole thing about a split before Thailand?"

"A temporary bump," she said, looking down, looking slightly chagrined. "We had split for a couple of months because I'd made the mistake of assigning the same behaviours to Mark that I had come to expect from other men. Namely, infidelity." Bridget met Peter's eyes again. "Do you remember Rebecca?"

Peter's thoughts flashed back to the party, to tall, young, pretty Rebecca, how she seemed to want to follow Mark around like a little lost puppy. "Sure, yes, the fourteen-year old."

Bridget chuckled. "I was convinced he was having an affair with her. I completely bollocked it up, and we split. Then he thought I'd gone back to Daniel Cleaver, which, ugh. To think I might have." Bridget then explained, "Daniel and I were working together at the television studio, and that work took us to Thailand. Perfectly charming, told me he'd changed, but… thankfully I realised he was lying before I'd done something stupid like sleep with him again."

"Not that I think Mark is capable of being unfaithful, but, how did you know that he wasn't?" asked Peter.

Bridget smiled. "Because Rebecca was interested in _me_, not Mark."

Not in a million years did Peter see that one coming, and he could not help but laugh again. Thinking back to the party, to the wistful smiles and lost-puppy looks—Rebecca had been casting them at Bridget, after all.

He might have asked Bridget for even more details on their continued courtship—even though he knew all was fated to turn out well—but at that moment her friends came hustling in and up to the table. _More later, perhaps,_ thought Peter, _and maybe from Mark._

"Bridge!" The blonde, whom he recalled was called Sharon. "You didn't tell me you were bringing Dr Darcy!"

"Nice to see you again." Tom, whose eyebrow raised again seemingly of its own accord.

"Nice to see you both." said Peter.

"Starting without us?" said Tom.

"Just had a couple of drinks," said Bridget. "Been getting to know my brother-in-law a little bit better. Wanted to know our history a little, Mark and me."

Sharon chuckled. "Ohh, did you tell him about your birthday dinner?"

Bridget said, "Um, briefly."

Sharon turned to Peter, broad grin on her face. "We were there that night and let me tell you, he was fucking adorable, all gooey-eyed and looking at Bridge," she said, nodding to her friend. "We didn't know a whole lot about him, just that he was some barrister, and, um…" She faltered.

"What?"

"Well, and… some kind of unpleasant things about him when they first met," Sharon finished uncertainly.

"Oh, I don't doubt he was the biggest arse," supplied Peter. At that, the two friends burst into laughter. "I love my brother but he was not the most sociable man on the face of the earth."

"He's definitely gotten better at that," said Sharon through her giggles.

With their lunch, they ordered another round of drinks, causing Peter to wonder how she was ever going to be able to work when they got home; Peter opted for a soda instead of another ale, as he was driving that day.

"So Peter," said Sharon, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. "Any closer to a job?"

"Not yet," he said, "though there are some good prospects in town."

"Suppose the living situation won't sort itself out until the job does," commented Tom.

Peter nodded.

"So what if they can't get you London?" asked Bridget, as if she had only just thought of the possibility. Strangely, Sharon and Tom both looked equally interested in his reply.

"Hadn't really given much thought to elsewhere," said Peter, "but having travelled the world, anywhere within England will be like practically living next door to my family, so I'll be pretty happy with whatever I get."

Bridget smiled, though Peter suspected she hoped for an assignment in London; honestly, for all his talk, he hoped he did, too.

* * *


	4. Part 4 of 4

**Silent Observer**  
Part 4 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 21,016 (this part: 4,658)

Rating: T / PG-13

See Part 1 for the summary, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

Peter was beginning to see how easy it was to be swayed by Bridget.

On their way home from lunch, Bridget happened to mention having seen a film he had been very keen to see. He told her when asked, and she replied, "Oh! Well, it's still playing at the Renoir. Why don't we go?"

"In the middle of the day? When you have to work?"

"Why not? It's not a long show," said Bridget, "and I'll be home with plenty of time to squeeze some work in."

He didn't reply.

"Come on," she said. "You know you really want to. When's the last time you took a break and just went to the cinema? Probably not many opportunities where you were in Africa."

The thing was, he hadn't been to a film in some time, hadn't really cared to, but this particular picture really called to him.

"All right," he conceded at last. "Let's go and see if there's a showing."

She grinned. "Goody."

There was a showing starting within the half-hour and it was only ninety minutes long, so he allowed her to buy two tickets. "It's good enough to see twice," she said, "but isn't really Mark's cup of tea."

"Did you see it with—"

"Tom," they said simultaneously. Peter laughed.

"How did I know?"

She shrugged and smiled, feigning innocence. "Can't imagine."

The film, a farce set in the earliest part of the twentieth century, was as good as all accounts had said it would be. They were both laughing so hard they were crying, and before he knew it the end credits were rolling.

"Oh," she said, looking to Peter, still chuckling. "What did you think?"

"Loved it."

"Definitely worth seeing more than once, hm?"

"I'll be buying the disc when it comes out." He stood, pulling his jacket closed. "Thanks for dragging me down here."

"Certainly."

As they stepped out into the cold, Bridget shivered. "I swear the temperature's plummeted since we went in there," she said. "How about we stop for a coffee before heading home?"

Peter glanced to his watch. Four-thirty. "I don't know. I think maybe…"

"Chuh," she said. "Still have plenty of time. Mark's always late coming home from work."

They went into a nearby coffee shop, and he ordered vanilla cappuccinos for each of them, as well as a couple of biscotti. "Oh, much better. One must fortify oneself against the cold."

"That and the heater on my car isn't very effective."

"And it's such a long drive."

"Gruelling."

Taking in a long sip, she fixed her blue eyes onto him, and he was surprised at how piercing her gaze was. "So, Peter Darcy," she said at last with an impish grin. "Time for a little quid pro quo."

"What?"

"I told you all about Mark and myself. It's your turn."

"I don't have a partner."

"I don't care," she said, then amended as her face turned bright red, "I mean, I _do_ care and want you to be happy with someone, obviously, but the subject matter doesn't have to be about a partner."

Peter laughed under his breath, then turned a little serious. "I want to be happy with someone, too," he said at last. "I'm afraid that being more permanently settled will make it more difficult."

"What do you mean?" asked Bridget, clearly enjoying her sudden role as confidant. "Wouldn't it make it easier?"

"When I was travelling the world, sometimes with assignments as short as six months…" he began, than paused to think. "Let's just say that the impermanence of the situation made it very evident that any interpersonal relations were equally impermanent. It was easy to get involved with someone when you knew, expected, that it was never going to get serious."

Bridget's eyes got soft, sympathetic, as she smiled at him across the table. "I see what you're saying." She sipped her cappuccino. "So… do you not want serious?"

"Sure," he said, though he sounded anything but. "It's just hard to know which way things are going to go when there's no end in sight."

Bridget unexpectedly chuckled. "Well, durr," she said. "No one ever does. That's both the challenge and the fun."

Peter could not help but chuckle too, realising in retrospect what he'd said sounded kind of ridiculous. "I know," he said. "Really I do. I guess I'm just not sure about trying yet."

"Ah," said Bridget knowingly. "That's when it's most likely to happen."

"Oh wisest of sages," said Peter. "You make it sound so easy."

Her smile faded a little, then she glanced down and busied herself with nibbling her biscotti. "I know that it's anything but," she said at last. "I had my share of heartbreak and frustration, times when I didn't want to do anything but stay under the duvet and eat ice cream by the carton."

Peter chuckled, drinking from his mug.

"Do you think you've ever come close?" asked Bridget.

"To eating ice cream under the duvet? Oh, sure."

She laughed, then reached playfully to pat him on the forearm. "That isn't what I meant."

"I know." He pushed himself back in his seat again. "That was always a difference between Mark and I: I would get out of difficult situations or uncomfortable conversations with humour, while he would just avoid them altogether by being the silent observer."

"That's not entirely true anymore." Bridget smiled. "You're avoiding answering the question."

"I suppose I've probably come close," said Peter. "Nothing I recognised for what it was at the time. I've spent so long living a solitary, transitory existence though… it's going to take a little getting used to having the same people around for more than weeks at a time."

"That's true," she said. "I've spent years in the company of the same friends and family—and Mark too, though considerably more recently—that I can't imagine what I'd do without them or their support." She seemed to consider her words before continuing. "I hope you know that you can always count on me—well, and Mark too, but I'm sure you already know that. For support, I mean."

The misspeak touched his heart deeply. He'd not even known this woman a week and she was treating him like her own family, her long-time friend. "That means a lot to me, Bridget. More than you can know."

"Well, good."

A faint ringing sound emanated from Bridget's handbag. She bent to reach into the bag, pulled out her mobile, and said, "Bugger."

"What is it?"

"Mark," she said. "From the house phone." She stuffed the phone back into her bag.

"Aren't you going to answer it?"

"No," she said. "Because we're going home." She picked up her mug, drank down the last bit of coffee, then stood up. "I'll tell him we just went out for a bit."

He wondered about her definition of 'a bit', considering they had been out since before lunch. "Don't forget your biscotti."

"Oh! Right."

The drive back was delayed by traffic. By the time they arrived back to the house it was already dark, and Mark had begun cooking dinner.

"Ah, they live. Did you not get my call?" asked Mark, not looking up from the sauté pan.

"I'm sorry," said Bridget, flashing a look to Peter. "What's for dinner?" she asked brightly.

"A very fine cut of steak," replied Mark, "with mashed potatoes and peas on the side."

"My favourite," said Peter.

"I know," Mark returned.

Peter grinned, suddenly sure that Mark never forgot anything. "Smells wonderful," said Peter. "You seemed to have inherited the Wentworth talent for cooking."

"You don't cook?" asked Bridget.

"Not very well," he said. "I can manage not to ruin instant noodles."

She chuckled. "Remind me to tell you about the world-famous blue soup some time."

Peter laughed, recalling their lunch conversation, though he was not certain he really wanted to know.

"If you'd kindly set the table," said Mark, "I only have potato mashing to do."

Within five minutes the table was laid out and dinner was served. Mark's dinner was quite possibly the greatest thing he'd ever eaten. Nick's meals were amazing, to be sure, but the comfort he found in the deliciousness of this, his favourite dish, made him more content than he'd been in some time.

"So where did you go?" asked Mark, as he cut himself off yet another bite of steak. Which, Peter noted, was the perfect shade of pink in the middle.

"Went with Peter to his office," said Bridget, conveniently leaving out the rest. "Fascinating stuff."

"No doubt," said Mark, drinking his wine.

"How was your day?" Bridget asked, clearly diverting the subject away from what she and Peter had been up to that day.

"Oh, went quite well," said Mark. "Always nice when proceedings go smoothly."

"Good to hear."

Mark turned back to his brother. "And Peter? No indication yet which hospital wants you?"

He chuckled. "That's a bit presumptuous, that any will want me at all," Peter responded.

"They'd be mad not to," Mark said.

"One of them will choose you," said Bridget. "I just know it."

Peter smiled, revelling in the confidence they had in him.

It was after the meal, after the table was cleared and they were all still in a state of post-indulgence bliss, that Mark, ever the tactician, sprung into proverbial action.

"So let's see it, then," he said, looking to his wife, who sat beside him on the sofa, the telly on but low enough to not obscure conversation.

"See what?"

"How many words you got down today."

Peter fought a laugh. Mark indeed never forgot anything, and his promise to check her word count was no exception.

"Let's see it," he said again with an insistent tone.

"Oh, Mark," she said dismissively. To her credit she was doing a good job of acting nonchalant. "Come on. I wasn't serious yesterday."

"I was," he replied, his expression extremely stern, his voice calm yet annoyed. "Bring your computer over here."

"Mark—"

"Bridget," he said again, firmly and sharply. "Now."

With no further protest, she stood and went over to pick up her computer. She brought it over and opened it, launching a document and pointing out several paragraphs up on the screen.

"Nice try," he said curtly, his expression still very sombre. "This is from last week. I remember reading it in the newspaper."

Bridget finally broke down and admitted nothing had been written that day: "Okay, you caught me; I didn't get to writing. But Mark. Your brother and I—"

"Don't blame Peter."

Peter started to wonder if he should leave the room.

"We were just having such a nice time together… I invited him to lunch, then we went to the cinema—"

"The cinema?" he asked abruptly.

"—and coffee afterwards," she added meekly, looking sad to have disappointed him.

"Oh, Bridget," he said, exasperated, shaking his head, covering his face with his hands. "I would think you would know by now—" He looked up, taking his hands away, and only then did he crack the barest of smiles. "—when I'm joking."

Her mouth dropped open. "You bastard. You bloody bastard!" But then she smiled, laughed, her expression changing a hundred and eighty degrees from just a moment before, and she started poking him to tickle him, repeating "Bastard!" over and over again. He laughed in return, pulling her close and kissing her, as if forgetting Peter was even there.

It had been such a convincing show of simmering anger that Peter was embarrassed to admit he'd bought into it—having seen the real thing far too frequently—that he barely had time to register Mark's open display of affection with his wife before it was over.

"I am glad that you and Peter had such a wonderful day," said Mark. "To be honest, I kind of expected you wouldn't write at all."

"Why do you have to be such a horrible tease," she said, "stringing me along like that?"

"Because it's so easy to fool you," he replied, then added in all seriousness, "and I love when you try to beat me up with a pillow afterwards."

"Right." She grabbed a decorative throw pillow and bopped Mark on the top of the head with it. "For good measure."

"Hey, Bridget," said Peter at last. "Hand me the pillow."

She did so; he promptly whacked his brother with it.

"Hey!" said Mark, obviously stunned, though still smiling. "What was that for?"

"For stringing me along, too," said Peter.

The old Mark might have stormed out in a silent rage, but this Mark only laughed and looked down. "Fair enough," he said. "I've hardly given you time to get used to the beneficial effects of having Bridget in my life." She smiled, seeming almost a little embarrassed.

"She won't need to stay home tomorrow," said Peter. "I've got some old mates I want to get in touch with."

"So she can write twice as much then," added Mark.

"Don't even kid. My boss will want me to."

"I did try to remind you…" said Peter, trailing off.

"Shush," she said, then added with a smirk, "Don't know that I like two Darcy men haranguing me."

With that she snuggled up against Mark's shoulder and the three of them became engrossed in the programme airing on the television.

When it was over, though, Mark made no move to rise as the next show came on. Peter glanced over and saw why: Bridget had fallen to sleep. His eyes then raised to meet Mark's. He was smiling as well.

"I am glad," said Mark softly; before he had a chance to ask what he was glad for, Mark continued, "Glad that the two of you are getting along so well. I always thought that you might, but it's wonderful to see the reality of it."

Peter smiled. "I'm just glad to see you've found someone to bring out the best in you."

Mark looked down to her; she was soundly sleeping, her arm around his waist. "Yes. As am I." He sighed. "I shudder to think it almost didn't happen."

"I heard most of the story over lunch today," said Peter. "How you almost went to New York for a job, almost married another woman."

"Think that was the bravest thing I've ever done," said Mark, "coming back for her, not even certain she'd have me."

"So how did it come to be," began Peter, "that you ever split?"

"It was stupid," said Mark. "I wasn't very good yet at realising that Bridget was still stinging from a lifetime of, to use her word, 'fuckwittage'. When I should have been asking questions and reassuring her about my friendship with a woman in the office—Rebecca, whom you met on New Year's Eve—I was instead becoming quietly furious and resentful that she would assume the worst of me."

Peter did not say what he was thinking: _That sounds like the Mark I knew._

"So I'm afraid when she asked me directly about whether or not Rebecca and I were having an affair, I became defensive, offended that she would even suggest such a thing. When she walked out on me, I did not go after her."

Peter pursed his lips. Again, he was not surprised. Pride would have prevented him from doing so.

"I thought we would work it out within a day or two, but we didn't, and days passed, then weeks, with no contact. Two things registered with me very quickly: that she was not coming back, and that I was a fool to let her go in the first place. I was more in love with her than I had ever realised."

Bridget made a soft sound at that moment, shifting a little in his embrace, but remaining asleep.

"We came very close to working it out once," Mark said. "We were both asked to be godparents for the newborn of a colleague of mine and a friend of hers; Magda and Jeremy, at the party." Peter nodded his head, remembering the redhead. "After the christening, after my locating her mobile for her, we began talking and for the first time in a month I felt hopeful. Then her phone rang, and as I was holding it, I was foolish enough to answer it."

Peter was almost afraid to ask who it was on the other end. Mark continued nonetheless.

"It was Daniel Cleaver, who informed me of their going to dinner at the Ivy if I wanted to show up to punch him again," he said, "because I had done so before—"

"I heard about the fight," said Peter.

"Ah." He stroked her hair; Peter wondered it if it was out of comfort to her, or a need to reassure himself. "It hurt me so much to think that she'd been seeing him again, despite what he'd done to her, what he'd done to _me_, when I had never done anything to betray her… I admit to a bit of a knee-jerk reaction. I gave her back the key to her flat, and left without another word."

Mark paused to press an almost apologetic kiss into her blonde hair before speaking again.

"The next I'd see her was in a cell in a Thai prison," he said. "The day her friend Sharon rung me up to tell me what had happened—nabbed at the airport with drugs hidden in a trinket in her suitcase—was the worst day of my life. I still loved her, and the thought of her languishing in prison for something she did not do caused me to spring into immediate action. But I didn't want her to know, because if she had moved on, no longer had feelings for me, I didn't want a relationship with her of any sort based on pity alone. I didn't allow that to stop me, though."

"I'm sure you turned over every rock to free her."

"Called in every favour I'd ever been owed," he said. "Though I was still smarting to hear that she'd been in Thailand with Cleaver—that my investigation indicated she'd spent the night in his hotel—I went to see her to deliver the news to her directly. The scoundrel who'd given Sharon the object filled with cocaine had been caught and identified by Sharon, but getting an identification from Bridget too would only strengthen the case, and it was a good excuse to get in the cell to see her.

"I'm afraid, though, that my suppressed anger got the best of me, and I was less than kind to her in the cell, even though she was clearly reaching out to me… which I did not realise until later.

"I had a very long flight to think about everything, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I got, especially since Sharon had told me that she'd seen Daniel see Bridget get led away into custody and he had done nothing. So upon my return I went to find him to confront him."

"Let me guess, another fight?"

"Mmm, yes," Mark said, looking almost amused. "You could say that. I shall never be able to look at the fountain in front of the Serpentine again without cringing. But I did come away with a revelation: he told me that Bridget had never gone back to him, after all. I wondered if I'd been wrong all that time, assuming she had no feelings for me, assuming I was the only one who was hurting… and then it was while I was working, mediating a meeting for a group of Peruvians, that I knew for sure I'd been wrong about everything, because Bridget showed up, thanked me for the work I'd done to free her, apologised for being just as wrong… and to say she loved me still."

Peter smiled.

"In front of the entire conference."

Peter chuckled. "That seems only right."

"I pulled her into the hallway for a little privacy, realised very quickly that I didn't want to be without her again, decided to ask the question I'd been meaning to ask for so long—"

He heard a yawn. "And then I blew it for you," came Bridget's sleepy voice as she opened her eyes and looked up to Mark with a smile.

"Yes, you did," said Mark with a light laugh.

"What did she do?"

Bridget sat up straight. "I sort of sarcastically anticipated the question."

"What do you mean?"

Mark and Bridget shared a look, seemingly agreeing to re-enact the scene:

"'There's a question I've been meaning to ask you,'" Mark asked.

"'All right,'" replied Bridget. "'As long as it's not, "Will you marry me?"'"

"You didn't," said Peter.

Bridget nodded sheepishly. "I'm afraid I did."

Mark squeezed her hand. "But you accepted, which is all that really mattered to me."

"Ah," she said, winking at Peter, "but I never technically said 'yes'."

"Ohhh," said Mark, looking thoughtful. "Well, in that case, it's all a sham. Off you go, then." Playfully he started trying to push her off of her seat. She began laughing and pushing back.

Peter was very glad, indeed, that Mark had interpreted whatever her response had been to his proposal as an affirmative. Satisfied at having the whole story of Mark's transformation, he rose at that moment and excused himself, reminding them he had phone calls to make before retiring for the night. He was just concluding those calls when he heard footsteps in the hallway, and the door at the end of the hallway close. Very shortly afterwards, as he ventured into the hall for the loo, he heard Bridget giggling, interspersed with distinct sighs. Peter smiled, then chuckled.

_Perhaps the real secret of Mark's looser, more relaxed personality_, he thought, _is the fact that he's getting laid on a very regular basis._

………

"No. _Really?_" asked Bridget, her mouth open in surprise.

"Yes," said Peter. He smiled broadly.

"But that's a bit of a distance away," asked his brother.

"It's nearer than the Sudan," reminded Peter, "and it's only a three-month gig."

"But why Warwickshire?"

Peter grinned. "One, I'm sort of longing for green and the country after the desert then the city, and two, it was your friend who contacted me about taking it."

Mark looked perplexed for just a moment. "Are you talking about Hugh?"

Peter nodded. "In three months' time I'll be itching for the metropolis again," he said, "and by then, perhaps something perfect will have opened in London."

"We'll then have twice as many reasons to visit Stratford. Three, actually," she said, correcting herself.

"Three?"

"Wicksy," said Bridget, looking disappointed that Mark had to ask.

Mark laughed. "Of course."

"When do you leave?" asked Bridget.

"This weekend," said Peter. "Specifically, tomorrow morning. I know, kind of short notice, but they want me to begin on Monday."

"What about a place to live and all that?" Bridget asked, concerned.

"Hugh said I could crash with him until I found a flat, which I intend to start looking for straightaway."

Mark smiled in an unusually tender way at his younger brother. "I've gotten used to having you around," he explained. "I'll miss you."

"I'm not going for good," Peter reminded. "Wild horses, and all that."

"We must have dinner at the Globe tonight, then," announced Bridget.

………

Peter decided he had best not overindulge on ale at the Globe because there was little else more miserable than having to be attentive and driving out to Stratford whilst hung over. This time Peter ordered the fish and chips out of deference to what Bridget thought was best; she in turn ordered the stew.

Shortly after placing their orders, there were three new arrivals to the Globe, Bridget's friends Tom, Jude, and…

"Sharon, right?" Peter asked.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, call me Shazzer," she said as she pulled up a seat from a nearby table. "Everyone but Mark does."

They all laughed.

"Bridge mentioned you were leaving for the country," said Tom with an exaggerated shudder, "and we decided to crash your little goodbye dinner."

"Well, thank you," he said, as Bridget and Mark pulled in closer to make more room for the new arrivals.

"Come on, squeeze in," said Bridget. "If I'd known you lot were coming I would have gotten a bigger table."

Peter found himself elbow to elbow with Sharon and Tom, who, after ordering lager and a burger and chips, turned to Peter with his chin in his hand. "What sort of thing will you be doing out there in Stratford?"

"Helping cover the load of a doctor who's gone part time while his own wife is recuperating at home."

"That sounds exciting."

"Trust me," said Peter, "it's not."

"I've had a brilliant idea," piped up Bridget. "For work."

"What, Bridge?" asked Jude, swiping a sip from Bridget's bloody Mary.

"I'm going to do a story all about Peter's work with Doctors Without Borders. And I'm going to see if I can get permission to go visit the sites—"

In unison, both Darcy men said with very firm voices: "Absolutely not."

There was a beat of absolute silence as the brothers shared a look (and a knowing smile) before everyone present began to laugh; everyone, of course, except for Bridget.

"But—"

"No," said Peter and Mark simultaneously, sending the friends into gales of laughter again.

"It's far too dangerous," continued Peter. "Warring factions, gunfire… and a pretty blonde Englishwoman would be the perfect target."

"Listen to him, he would know," said Mark sternly.

Bridget looked annoyed. "Thank you, Father Brothers."

"Oh, Bridge," said Tom affectionately. "They lecture because they _care_."

Of course he cared for his brother's wife; but it was not until that moment that he realised he thought of her as the little sister he never had. He had been overwhelmed by that sense of love and a protective instinct that he imagined older siblings feel for younger ones. It instantly opened a new insight into some of Mark's past actions regarding himself—Mark had always been fiercely loyal and protective of his friends and family, but it had always seemed to be over-the-top with Peter (aside from that temporary estrangement). He now completely understood.

"I'm being cared for to the point of suffocation," she said, though he could tell from the tenor of her voice that the offense had passed, and he watched as Mark reached over and took her hand to squeeze it, then stroke the back with his thumb.

"So, Peter," began Sharon. "I hear it's a temporary stint, your country job?"

"Yes, it's only three months. I'm hoping by then to have something more permanent in London."

"Oh, good," said Sharon, a wide smile spreading across her face.

Peter glanced at Tom, who wore a similarly broad smile. He realised then that Tom and Sharon both seemed interested in more than just being friends.

His ego was very much flattered.

………

It was when London was a blur on the horizon behind him that he allowed himself to feel the least bit sad. He knew it would not last long, because, after all, his family was within a relatively easy driving distance, and future visits would not be under the pall of possible rejection. And when it came to his sister-in-law, just as his mother had predicted, he really did adore her.

Peter knew he was, in a sense, falling back into his long-standing habit by accepting an assignment with a finite end, but he also knew this was different; these were not people he would never see again once the three months were over. There _was_ a sense of permanence here, of the richness of family and friends, of unconditional love and support. It was a step he needed to take, and one he looked forward to taking.

_The end._


End file.
